


Under the Influence

by thesaddestboner



Series: Under the Influence [1]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canonical Character Death, Community: rpf_big_bang, Drug Use, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Non-Famous Family Members As Characters, Recreational Drug Use, St. Louis Cardinals, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-27
Updated: 2009-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:06:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Matt Morris is a Major League veteran who has gone through things that would completely break a lesser man. Dan Haren is a rookie hot-shot who’s flown through the St. Louis organization’s minor league system at breakneck speed. Turns out one of them still has a little left to learn. And it’s not the rookie.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Influence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [becausemagnets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/becausemagnets/gifts).



> This is for [**drummergroupie**](http://drummergroupie.livejournal.com/), who is patient without even knowing it. ;D She asked for _Matt Morris/Dan Haren. Mulder trade angst_ , and somehow that request became . . . this. 
> 
> Takes place during 2003 - 2005. The crossword puzzle Danny is doing is [this one](http://www.nytimes.com/learning/teachers/xwords/print/20030701.html). The art exhibit Matt and Danny go to is inspired by [this one](http://www.slam.org/index.aspx?id=123&exh=10). 
> 
> Many thanks to [**holdeverysong**](http://holdeverysong.livejournal.com/), [**tripthemighty**](http://tripthemighty.livejournal.com/), [**badalice**](http://badalice.livejournal.com/), [**hockeysaurus**](http://hockeysaurus.livejournal.com/), and [**drummergroupie**](http://drummergroupie.livejournal.com/) (to name only a few) for listening to me whine about this ficbeast and offering their assistance.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

Matt overhears bits and pieces in the clubhouse about the kid before he actually gets to meet him. A teammate who’s worried about his job security spits out his name - “That damn _Haren kid_!” - like it’s an anathema. Another teammate speaks of Haren with reverence - “That damn Haren kid, he sure can deal!” - and Matt wants to meet him real bad now. Wants to see the kid who’s at the center of all this hype. 

Matt hasn’t seen a kid yet who can live up to the kind of press Haren’s been getting so far this season. He remembers all the ink devoted to Ankiel a few years ago, and everyone knows how _that’s_ turned out. Haren’ll be no exception, he’s sure of it. There are _never_ any exceptions when it comes to hype. No one can live up to that kind of pressure. 

Matt makes his rounds in the clubhouse the day the Haren kid is supposed to show up. The whole team is abuzz over this _rookie_ , this damn wet-behind-the-ears kid who’s taking _his_ turn in the rotation. Matt feels righteous disgust flood over him when he spots the clubhouse attendant polishing a brass nameplate, “DANNY HAREN” etched in block lettering. 

Matt hasn’t been pitching well lately, and the coaches are optimistic a “breather” away from the game will give him the clarity he apparently needs. He’s never taken a break during the season, save for the All-Star Game, so Matt is obviously not a fan of this idea. And what if this Haren kid _is_ all he’s cracked up to be? Then it’s _Matt_ whose job is on the line, and not some scrub like Simontacchi or Stephenson or Journell.

A wadded up ball of medical tape thwocks Matt on the shoulder and he stoops to pick it up. He hears hushed giggles behind him and Matt looks to see who threw it so that he can give the culprits a little bit of their own medicine. It’s only fair. 

Then, suddenly, without warning, the entire tenor of the clubhouse changes. There’s a noticeable shift from the typical, comfortable pregame atmosphere to one of heightened electricity. Even the hairs on the back of Matt’s neck stand straight up. 

Matt pauses in front of an empty locker, tape ball in hand, and looks up. 

The clubhouse doors swing open and the kid swaggers in, a red warm-up jacket slung over one shoulder like he’s just stepped out of an old Western. He doesn’t look at all how Matt expected. He’d heard that the kid was from southern California, so he’d been picturing (and throwing mental darts at) Spicoli from _Fast Times at Ridgemont High_. What he’s looking at is a strapping, dark-haired kid with keen, unnerving blue eyes. 

Haren spots the locker with the shining brass nameplate and lopes over, depositing his duffel bag and jacket. He pushes his ballcap up off of his head and looks around, scratching at his hair, before he notices Matt standing beside his locker. He nods to him. “Hey.” 

Matt remembers himself and greets the kid with a friendly smile. “Hey. Danny, right?” Like he doesn’t know. 

Haren nods, smiling. “Yeah, you can call me Dan, though. I only let family call me Danny,” he says, cheeks tinted just the slightest hint of red. 

Matt laughs. “All right then, Dan it is.” He sticks out a hand. “I’m Matt, by the way. Matt Morris.” 

“I know who you are,” Haren says, reaching out and wrapping warm, dry fingers around Matt’s. “I’ve heard all about you, man.” 

Matt hikes an eyebrow. “Really? Nothing too bad, I hope.” 

“Nah, nothin’ I wouldn’t tell my mom,” Haren says, grinning and slipping his hand away. He sits in front of his locker and knocks the cap off his head. 

When he sits back, Matt notices the kid’s necklace for the first time, three white shells on a band of black leather. Matt reaches up and touches his own shell necklace briefly, a gift from his wife. 

Matt pulls up a seat next to Haren’s locker and sticks the ball of tape to one of the shelves in Haren’s stall. “So, how old’re you, kid?” 

Haren looks over, looking vaguely amused at being addressed as _kid_. “I’m twenty-two,” he says, quickly adding, as if in an afterthought, “but I’ll be twenty-three this September.” 

“Cool. Maybe if you’re still around the big club I’ll take you out for drinks or something,” Matt says. 

“Or something? Is _or something_ secret code for strippers?” Haren grins, crystalline eyes twinkling. 

“Nope,” Matt says, and Haren’s shoulders flag dramatically. “Sorry to disappoint. Strippers are reserved for the vets.” 

“Damn, that’s not fair, man.” 

“No exceptions, Haren. ’specially not for recently recalled rookies,” Matt says, with a smirk. 

“Well, I’m the next big thing, so. I think I deserve some special treatment here,” Haren says, and Matt can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. 

“Sorry. No can do.” 

Haren sighs and scrubs a hand through his floppy brown hair. “Well, hey, it was worth a try.” 

\- 

Haren loses his debut to the Giants, 5-1 and he doesn’t pitch _badly_ , but he doesn’t exactly pitch well either. It’s obvious his nerves got to him, that he tried to do too much, and Matt’s kind of amused - the way they’d been talking the kid up, he thought Haren didn’t _have_ nerves. It’s nice to see that even the invincible Haren kid isn’t so invincible after all. 

But when Matt catches Haren in the clubhouse after the game, once the media vultures have had their fill, and sees the misery in Haren’s eyes, he can’t help but feel a pang of guilt for wishing this on the kid. 

“You all right?” Matt inquires, tentatively. Rookies are usually pretty touchy after the first loss anyway. Better to tread lightly at first. 

Haren is sprawled bonelessly in front of his locker, draped over a tiny stool that looks like it’s seen better days. He shrugs. “I guess.”

“You weren’t _bad_ out there. You – ” 

“You don’t have to bullshit me, dude. I’m a big boy. I can handle it,” Haren grumbles. 

“No,” Matt says, “I mean it. You really weren’t bad out there.” 

“But I wasn’t any _good_ ,” Haren concludes. 

Matt sweeps a hand through his hair and shakes his head. Maybe he’d overestimated the kid. “You’re gonna have to learn how to deal with losses if you’ve got any expectations of sticking around.” 

“How d’ _you_ deal with the losses?” Haren asks, shuffling closer to Matt’s locker. 

Matt glances at Haren, stretching his mouth into a thin smile. “It’s a tough learning curve,” he says. “Didn’t come easy to me. I mean, who in his right mind wants to learn how to lose?” 

“C’mon, man,” the kid says impatiently, tugging on Matt’s sleeve. “How’d you do it?” 

Matt flicks his gaze upward. 

“ - you found _God_?” Haren sounds disgusted. 

“ _No_ , you dumbass.” Matt points to the empty locker between his and Haren’s. Well, mostly empty anyway, save a pristine white jersey bearing the number 57 and a name - Kile - embroidered on the back in red stitching. 

“Oh,” Haren says on an exhale, sounding almost reverent. He knows. Matt’s pleased to see they’re educating the youngsters down on the farm. 

“Yeah,” he says, not taking his eyes off the jersey. “Once you go through that, well. Losing baseball games is nothing.” 

\- 

Haren starts tagging along a lot after that first lesson, throwing whatever questions he can think of Matt’s way. Haren asks him questions ranging from the mundane - _“What can I do to get more movement on my splitter?”_ \- to the absurd - _“Do you believe in extraterrestrial life?”_ \- and Matt has an answer for him every time - _“If you want some extra movement you can twist your wrist a little bit when you release.”_ and _“Sure, why not? The universe is vast.”_ He’s kind of amused at all the attention the kid is lavishing on him; it reminds him a lot of when Darryl joined the team, back in 2000. Matt couldn’t get enough of him, couldn’t get enough of picking his brain, and somehow, they’d developed an unbreakable bond. 

It doesn’t quite feel like hero worship in Haren’s case, though. It feels like - something _else_.

With Matt and Darryl, it was different. Darryl was an established star and Matt was the oft-injured ex-wunderkind who’d lost his pedestal. Darryl had put together a string of solid, successful seasons in Houston and established a reputation for himself as a reliable starter. The only thing Matt had established for himself was a perennial spot on the disabled list. He might have had more raw natural talent, but Darryl put what _he_ had to better use. 

This Haren kid, though. He’s special. Matt has a feeling about him. He just has to look at the kid, at those piercing blue eyes and the wild hair, just has to look at that golden right arm of his to know Haren’s going to be somebody one day. 

Haren slaps a crossword puzzle on the card table, throwing Matt rudely out of his thoughts. “So, fifty-six across. ‘Eggs, biologically’. I’m kinda stumped.” He throws a pen down onto the table as well and looks at Matt expectantly. 

“How many letters?” Matt asks. 

“Three,” Haren says, sitting down and gnawing on a pen cap. 

Matt rolls his eyes. “That’s easy. It’s ‘ova’. O-V-A.” 

Haren’s eyebrows shoot up. “How’d you know that,” he asks, as he scribbles the answer down. “Huh, it fits. Whaddaya know.” 

“ _I_ didn’t sleep through my entry-level bio class like _you_ apparently did,” Matt says, smirking. 

“Hey, I didn’t go to school for the education.” Haren holds up his newsprint-stained hands in self-defense. He picks his pen up and begins to scribble answers into the little white boxes. “ _New York Times_ crossword puzzles are fuckin’ hard anyways, man.” 

Matt grins. “Hey, it could always be worse. At least it wasn’t a _Highlights_ magazine! You’d never live that down.” 

Haren looks up at Matt and chuckles softly, flashing a big white grin his way. “Don’t be dissing _Highlights_ , dude. That was an important staple of my childhood.” 

“Lemme guess, you were a big fan of Goofus and Gallant?” 

Haren grins. “Nah. Actually, I was a fan of the Timbertoes.” 

“The Timbertoes? This has _got_ to be the weirdest conversation I’ve ever been a part of,” Matt says. 

Haren stretches out leisurely and puts his feet up on the flimsy card table. “First time for everything, huh?” He crosses his arms behind his head.

Matt cocks his head, scrutinizing Haren with a pitcher’s attention to detail. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

-

Matt’s sitting next to Haren in the clubhouse when Haren pulls a picture frame out of the back of his locker and puts it on the shelf in his stall. It’s a picture of Haren, wearing a baseball cap turned backwards, holding a pretty blonde in his lap in the home dugout at Busch Stadium. The girl has her arms twined around Haren’s neck, and they’re wearing matching Colgate-bright smiles.

“Who’s the girl?” Matt asks, bending over and tugging off his socks.

“Jessica,” Haren says, chest puffing out with pride. “My girlfriend.”

“She’s pretty,” Matt says, rolling his socks into a ball and tossing them in his locker.

“Thanks. What about you,” Haren asks, nodding to Matt. He reaches up and starts unbuttoning his jersey. “You got a girlfriend?”

“Just got married last winter,” Matt says. He picks his ring out of the front pocket of his dress shirt, which is still hanging in his locker, and slides it on his finger. 

“You’re _married_?” Haren raises his eyebrows in a comical expression of surprise.

“What?” Matt asks, laughing.

“It’s just - ” Haren stops and shrugs. “I dunno, you’re a young guy like me. I couldn’t imagine getting married this young.”

“Not that young anymore, kid,” Matt says, with a slight laugh. “I’ve been around long enough that I can’t be considered young. I’m a _veteran_.”

Haren stands and starts examining the pictures Matt’s taped up on the wall of his locker. He reaches out and taps his finger against Matt and Heather’s wedding picture. “Your wife’s hot.”

“Gee, thanks. I’ll be sure to let her know,” Matt says.

Haren moves down to the next one and furrows his brow. He gently separates the picture away from the wall and holds it up. “What’s going on here?” He turns the picture toward Matt.

Matt, dripping from a champagne bath, a pair of goggles hanging around his neck, had lain a big wet one on the cheek of Darryl Kile. Kile’s face was screwed up, and he was trying hard not to laugh. They’d clinched the division. It was Matt’s first full season in the rotation after coming back from elbow surgery, the first season he’d spent completely injury free. It was probably one of the best years of his life, ever. Until they lost to Arizona in the Divisional Series, at least.

Matt plucks it from Haren’s hand. “It’s from when we clinched the Central Division in 2001,” he says, quietly. It all rushes in at once like a crushing wave, the elation from clinching the division, the heartbreak at losing in the first round, everything that happened after. Matt finally tears his eyes away from the picture, away from the happy moment frozen in time.

“You guys were real close, huh?” Haren cuts his gaze toward Kile’s locker, briefly. “Gotta say, though, it’s really creepy seeing his locker like that, with all the stuff still there and everything. Like he’s gonna come back or something, and . . .” Haren trails off. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Matt says, turning and pressing the picture back into the collage on his wall. “He’s, he was my best friend. He kind of helped make me what I am today.”

Haren crosses his arms over his chest and leans against his locker. “He was your mentor?”

“Yeah,” Matt says, picking up his shirt. “Kinda like what I’m trying to do for you.”

Haren’s eyes light up. “That’s cool.” He pauses, expression growing serious. “I think he would’ve been proud of you, man.”

Matt swallows and lowers his head. He tugs at the collar of the shirt in his hands. “Thanks, kid. I’d like to think so too.” He pulls the shirt on and buttons it up.

“You wanna go out, grab something to eat?” Haren asks. “I’m _starving_. Let’s go out.”

Matt looks over at Haren. “I dunno, kid. It’s kind of late for dinner.”

“ _C’mon_ , man, let’s go out. How ’bout Mexican? Who doesn’t like Mexican?” Haren clips him lightly on the shoulder, wearing an overly bright grin.

Matt sighs. It’s clear the kid isn’t going to give up until he relents and agrees to go out with him. “Okay, fine. Mexican sounds good,” he says, giving himself an inward kick in the ass at giving in so easily.

“Awesome. Just let me change real quick.” Haren scampers back to his own locker and begins to hastily finish changing into his street clothes. 

-

They get back to Matt’s hotel room late, well after room checks, arms loaded with _way_ too much leftover Mexican food that Matt decides he’ll pawn off on Isringhausen. Lord knows, Isringhausen loves to eat. He’d never turn down good Mexican.

Matt concentrates on shoving the Styrofoam containers into the already overstuffed minibar, while Haren wanders into the bathroom.

“Dammit.” Matt starts pulling out bottles of alcohol and setting them onto the table next to the minibar.

“What’s the matter?” Haren calls out from the bathroom. Matt hears water running into the sink.

“Leftovers won’t fit into the minibar,” Matt yells over his shoulder. He picks up a small bottle of rum and a can of Coke, hefts them in his hands. “Want something to drink?”

“Sure,” Haren says. “Diet Coke if you got it.”

Matt puts the bottles of alcohol back into the minibar, setting the rum and Coke next to the cartons of Mexican. “Sorry, no can do on the Diet Coke. I got regular Coke though.” He shuts the door to the minibar and carries the rum and Coke to his hotel bed.

Haren emerges from the bathroom, wiping his hands on his pants. “I’ll pass then.” Haren sinks into the other bed and picks up the remote. He doesn’t turn the TV on; instead, he just spins the remote in his hand, then on his fingers.

Matt opens the bottle of rum and takes a slug, before washing it down with some of the Coke. “Anything good on?”

Haren glances over and raises an eyebrow. “That’s how you drink rum and Coke?”

“So?” Matt puts the can of Coke on the night stand and starts working on the bottle of rum.

“Nothing,” Haren says, smiling a little and shaking his head. He takes a brief, thoughtful pause before saying, “So, is this what you do? When everyone else goes out?”

Matt looks over, with a puzzled expression. “What’re you talking about?”

“Izzy said it’s like pulling teeth trying to get you to go out.” Haren puts the remote on the night stand.

Matt shrugs and takes a sip of the rum. “I go out,” he says, moodily. He knows he’s pouting, but he doesn’t really care. “Fuck Isringhausen, anyway. _I go out_.”

“Clearly not enough,” Haren says, with a slight laugh. “You oughtta go out more, man.”

“What are you, my _mom_?” Matt snorts.

“Nah. Just sayin’,” Haren says.

Matt looks over at him. “What exactly is it that you’re just sayin’?”

“That Izzy’s right,” Haren says. “You shouldn’t be up here, drinking alone when the rest of us are out and - ”

“It’s not like I’m drinking myself into a coma,” Matt says, taking a long slug of rum as if to make a point. “I know my limits.”

“No, I know. It’s just - ” Haren sighs and sits up in his bed. He bounces a fist lightly off the mattress. “You shouldn’t be by yourself.”

Matt looks over and they lock gazes. Haren’s eyes are bright and clear, intense, and Matt looks back at his bottle of rum. It’s dark, murky, and he raises the bottle to his lips, takes another sip.

“You don’t have to worry about me, kid,” Matt says, offering Haren a big smile over his bottle of rum. “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” Haren says, nodding slowly. He doesn’t sound convinced, though.

Matt just shrugs. “Whatever, kid. Believe me or don’t. Not my problem.”

He picks up the remote and sits back, turning the TV on to the local news. Haren sits back too, and they settle into an uncomfortable, slightly awkward silence.

The white noise of the TV, along with the rum, eventually lulls Matt off to sleep.

-

Matt leans his forehead against his locker and closes his eyes. He can feel the tightness in his shoulder, the one he had surgery on a few years back, and focuses on it. He pictures his muscles and tendons like rubber bands stretched out, ready to snap. 

He has a pretty scar left over from the operation, a wife with a scar kink, and a career, so he figures it’s worked out to his advantage. But then he feels the occasional twinges, and he wonders if he’s really got it so good.

Matt reaches into his locker and scrabbles along the shelf in his cubby before he finds his bottle of prescription pain pills. He pops the cap off and dumps a few into his hand, before swallowing them down with a swig from a water bottle.

A hand closes over his bad shoulder and Matt jumps, the water bottle flying.

“Shit! Haren, you scared the hell out of me,” Matt says, taking deep breaths. “Fuck.”

“Sorry,” Haren says, grinning. He doesn’t look very sorry at all. In fact, he looks like he enjoyed it. “A few of us are going out clubbing. You wanna come with?”

Matt wrinkles his nose and scratches at his hair. “Who else is going?” he asks.

“Izzy, Mike, probably Jimmy,” Haren says, ticking off a few of their teammates on his fingers. “Me. You.”

“Looks like you’ve already made the decision for me, huh?” Matt rolls his eyes and pulls a crisp white dress shirt off a hook. He slips it on and carefully slides his arms into the sleeves.

“Yup. You’re coming out with us, no ifs, ands or buts.” Haren slaps him on the shoulder again and goes off to his own locker.

Matt picks up the bottle of pills and slips it into his pocket.

\- 

They’re standing in the line outside the nightclub when Matt reaches into his pocket for his pain pills. He closes his fingers around nothing.

“Hey, Jason,” Matt says, tugging on Isringhausen’s sleeve, “did you take my pills?”

“No,” Isringhausen says, giving him a weird look. “Why would I take your pills?”

Matt pats down his jacket pockets and then his pants. “They were in my pocket and now they’re gone.” 

“Maybe you dropped them,” Isringhausen says, craning his neck, trying to see to the front of the line. “We’re almost at the front of the line anyway, man. Just let it go.”

“You can probably score something off somebody once we get inside,” Haren says, dryly.

Matt looks over at him. “Oh, that’s a great idea.”

Haren twists his mouth into a smirk. “You’ll be fine,” he says, slipping his hand between Matt’s shoulder blades. He gives him a hearty thump. “I’ll be your pain medication for the night.”

“So, when my shoulder starts hurting you’re gonna jump into my bloodstream - ” Matt says, sarcastically.

Haren keeps his hand on Matt’s back and pushes him forward, when the line starts moving. “Not quite that literal,” Haren says. “I can distract you or something.”

“Distract me from my fucked up shoulder? How’re you gonna manage that?” Matt asks.

“I’m sure I can think of something.” Haren guides him along.

Matt shakes his head. “All right then. Sounds like a plan.”

“I have to warn you, though,” Haren says, leaning in so that no one else can overhear. “I’m an addictive substance. So you might be better off scoring ‘x’ from that shady looking fucker over there.” He points to a suspicious looking guy in a long black coat at the front of the line.

Matt laughs. “Whatever you say, kid. Whatever you say.”

-

After a relatively mistake-free bullpen session a few days later, the team clears Matt for his next start and Haren is optioned to Memphis that same day. 

Matt stands by his locker, vaguely uncomfortable, while La Russa puts his hands on Haren’s face a la Marlon Brando in _The Godfather_ and promises the kid he’s on speed-dial should anyone get hurt, and Matt thinks to himself, _Well, hey, just catch me in a week. I’m sure I’ll do something dumb and potentially harmful to land myself back on the DL. No worries on_ that _front, kiddo._

“Thank you for the opportunity, sir,” Haren says to La Russa, deferential, head bowed. 

“You’ll be back in no time,” La Russa promises, giving the kid a reassuring back-pat. “You knock ’em dead in Memphis and you’ll be back so fast your head’ll be spinning.” 

Matt heads over to Haren’s locker once La Russa's detached himself and returned to his office. “Hey. You up for drinks?” Matt asks. 

“Nah, I got a fight to catch,” Haren says, sounding as if he truly regrets that he won’t be able to spend anymore quality time with Matt. A thought suddenly occurs to him because his eyes light up like a pinball machine. “Hey, can I bum a ride off you to the airport instead?” 

Matt smiles. “Sure, we can do that,” he says, plucking his keys out of his pants pocket. “You feelin’ all right about going back to Memphis?” 

“I guess,” Haren says, shrugging. “I’d obviously rather stay up with the big club, but, you know. What can you do?” 

“You’ll be back up in no time,” Matt echoes something La Russa had said, leading the way out of the clubhouse. 

“Everyone’s saying that,” Haren mutters from somewhere behind Matt. “I’m gonna - ” He stops himself before he can finish his thought. 

“You’ll what?” Matt gets to the exit and pushes the door open. A gust of wind hits him in the face and blows his hair into his eyes, blinding him. 

“Nothing,” Haren says, with a dismissive hand wave. 

“No, what?” Matt prompts, but Haren’s mouth tightens and his blue eyes grow chilly. “Well, okay then. Have it your way.” 

The two of them head out to the players’ lot in silence, to Matt’s Cardinal-red pickup truck. A plastic hula girl bobs desultorily on the dashboard when Matt opens the door and gets behind the steering wheel. 

Haren climbs into the passenger seat and eyes the dashboard hula girl. “How tacky.” 

“Oh, c’mon, everyone owns one of these,” Matt says, buckling himself up and starting the engine. He leans over and bobs the hula girl on her head. He also takes note of Haren’s reaction - Haren went completely still when Matt leaned over, his hand extended, as if he thought Matt was going to - what? _Molest_ him? Matt leans back and screeches out of his parking spot. 

“So,” Haren says. 

“Yeah?” Matt glances over briefly before turning his attention back to the road. 

“Nothing,” Haren says. He shifts in his seat and glances out the window. “I just - never mind.” 

“What _is_ it, Haren?” Matt asks. Haren sounds almost troubled. He’s got Matt’s interest now whether he wants it or not. 

“It’s - nothing, it’s stupid,” Haren says, staring out the window. 

“Danny - Dan. Dan, we’re teammates. You can tell me anything,” Matt says, wincing inwardly at how _after-school special_ that sounds coming out of his mouth. 

Haren glances over at Matt. “When you - when you leaned over, I thought you were gonna try to, uh, you know, put the moves on me.” 

Matt almost drives off the road. “You thought - _what_?”

“I _told_ you it was stupid,” Haren says. “But you insisted!” 

Matt tries to return his attention back to the road to keep them from spinning out, but it’s no use. He pulls onto the shoulder and kills the engine, turning in his seat to stare at Haren. 

“You thought I was gonna put the moves on you.” 

“Yeah! I dunno, you kinda - you know. You kinda seemed like the type,” Haren says quietly, the color in his cheeks flaring. 

Matt blinks rapidly. “You thought - you think I’m _gay_.” 

“Yeah! I mean, _no_! I _know_ you’ve got a wife! That’s not what I, argh. Fuck.” Haren bangs his fists against the dashboard in frustration and the hula girl starts dancing, grass skirt swishing about her garlanded, plastic ankles. 

Matt sits back, stunned. “Wow.” 

“It’s just, you’ve been so cool to me since I got here. Everybody else either treats me like I’m this circus sideshow or the second coming, and - I dunno. I thought - I mean, I still do think you’re real cool too,” Haren sputters, wringing his hands. He drops them into his lap, despondent, and lowers his head.

Matt glances at Haren again. “You - wow.” 

“I know you’re probably freaking out. Dude, I’m kinda freaking out too,” Haren says. “But I like you.” 

“You like me,” Matt echoes. “Like - like _that_?” 

“Yeah, I guess,” Haren says. “Um, _are_ you freaking out, man?” 

“I don’t _think_ I am,” Matt says, feeling it out. It sounds right. His palms are cool and sweaty, sure, and his heart is pounding in his chest. And his fingertips are tingling, but he’s pretty sure that’s the effect of the shock funneling out of him, rather than a full on freakout. Or a heart attack. 

“Well, that’s a _good_ thing, right?” Haren looks almost hopeful, his eyes impossibly bright in the dark. 

Matt closes his hand around the keys and starts the engine back up. “I think we should talk about this later,” Matt says, and Haren sinks back into the seat. He chances a quick glance Haren’s way. “It might be best just to - talk about it later. When you’re not jetting off to Memphis in, like, an hour. Okay?” 

Haren nods, thinning his mouth into a line. “Yeah,” he says, dully. “You’re right.” 

Matt pulls back into traffic and presses on the gas a little bit. He glances at Haren again, half-smiles a little when the kid digs his fingernails into the armrest. 

Haren sits back in the seat and sighs. Finally, he clears his throat and speaks. “If you’re pissed off at me, you can just say it,” he says. 

“I’m not pissed. Why would I be pissed?” Matt asks, as he cruises recklessly between two cars in the next lane. One of the drivers blasts his horn angrily and Matt just shrugs and smiles. 

“You’re driving like you got a death wish,” Haren says. 

“This is how I _always_ drive,” Matt says. 

“Okay, apparently you _always_ have a death wish then,” Haren mutters. 

Matt doesn’t say anything in response. He just guns the gas a little, to be annoying. And it apparently works, because Haren sinks even deeper into his seat, brow knit, one corner of his mouth pulled down into a slight frown for the rest of the ride. 

-

Matt starts following Haren down in Memphis like a fan, circles Haren’s starts on a pocket calendar in red ink and shells out the hundred or so bucks to watch the Redbirds’ games on his computer. He feels vaguely like a stalker, following Haren’s career like this, but then again, he really is interested to see what the kid can do without the pressure of _oh my god, first Major League start_ riding up on him.

The buzz that had followed Haren from Memphis to St. Louis follows him back down to Memphis too. There seem to be more St. Louis-based reporters writing stories on the kid, on his starts, how he looks, what he eats before a game, what his favorite bands are. Matt can’t remember if it was ever this ridiculous when he was surging through the Cardinals’ system as a hot shot can’t-miss kid himself.

People talked about him, sure, but he did come up while McGwire and Sosa were assaulting Roger Maris’ home run record. Matt figures the fact he got hurt right away probably rubbed some of the shine off, too.

When Heather finds his stack of newspaper clippings in the sock drawer while she’s doing their laundry, she starts to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Matt looks up from his laptop.

Heather turns, resting the laundry basket on her hip, and raises the paperclipped scraps. “What’s this, Matty?”

Matt gets up from the bed and wanders over, plucking the newspaper clippings from her hand. **HAREN STRIKES OUT 9 EN ROUTE TO 5-1 VICTORY** , **IOWA CUBS FALL TO REDBIRDS; HAREN GOES SEVEN** , **OMAHA NO MATCH FOR HAREN** , **HAREN NAMED TO ALL-STAR TEAM**.

“Oh, just some articles I wanted to keep,” he says, dropping them on the dresser.

Heather gives him a _look_ and he knows she doesn’t really buy his explanation. “They’re all about Haren though,” she says, shifting her basket to her other hip. She rests a hand on his chest. “You’re not getting too - ” 

“He’s just a teammate,” Matt interrupts, leaning in to kiss her on the forehead.

Heather closes her eyes and smiles, turning her face toward his. “You know how you get though,” she says, rubbing her hand in circles on his chest. “You’re not Darryl. You don’t have to - ”

“I know I’m not,” he says. “It’s just. Danny’s got a lot of talent, he’s just kind of a - smart ass, I guess. He needs some guidance. Maybe I see a little of myself in him, before Darryl got to me.”

“Okay,” Heather says, stilling her hand. “Okay. Just remember you don’t have to be - ”

“I know. I will,” he says, and for a split second, he’s not sure what he means. Matt slides his hand to her back and pulls her close, knocking the basket of laundry away. “You wanna?”

Heather laughs, Haren forgotten, and slips an arm around him. “I have to do the laundry,” she says, but she sounds like she could be swayed.

“The laundry can wait.” Matt leads her back toward their bed and sets the laptop on the night stand.

Heather sinks into the bed on her back, and Matt flops next to her, resting a hand on her stomach. He pushes her shirt up and traces patterns on her skin with the tips of his fingers.

“Have you got protection?” Heather asks, and Matt pauses with his hand on her stomach.

“Yeah, just - ” He leans away and grabs condoms out of the night stand drawer. “Thought we were gonna, you know, start trying.”

“You know we’re not ready.” 

He hears a rustle of clothing and turns. Heather tosses her shirt aside and moves to unbutton her blue jeans.

“We’ve been married a whole year. I was just thinking it might be time,” Matt says, dropping the condoms on the bed. He tugs his shirt off and tosses it alongside Heather’s.

“Could you help me with my bra?” She turns her back to him, pulling her hair away from her neck, and Matt unhooks her, sliding the straps off her shoulders.

Seems like only yesterday they’d barely had enough patience to get their clothing completely off before they were fucking, wanting, desperate. He kind of misses it, the _before_ , though what they have is how he always imagined it - married life - would be. 

Heather tosses her hair back and presses it away from her face. His rings - the engagement ring, the wedding ring and a simple promise ring he’d given her after a few months of dating - dangle on a chain between her breasts. She never wears them on her fingers, says she wants them close to her heart. Matt reaches out and slips the chain from around her neck, wrapping it around his fingers.

Matt drops the chain and pulls her into his arms, fumbling with his jeans, struggling to kick them off.

Heather laughs at him and helps him out of them, tugging them down his hips. Matt kicks his pants away and crawls over her, pressing a kiss to her temple, while Heather pulls his shirt over his head.

“Lorrie called asking for you today,” she says, tossing Matt’s shirt away. He pauses, allowing his mind to catch up with her words; Lorrie is Isringhausen’s wife. Why would _she_ call for him? “She said Jason found a bottle of your medication in his truck.”

Matt pauses, resting his mouth in her hair. “Mm. Okay.”

“He’s gonna bring it by tomorrow, I think,” Heather says, slipping an arm around his neck.

Matt spits out a lock of her hair. “Okay. Good.” He gropes along the bedspread until his fingers hit the box of condoms. Matt works the box open and snags one. “Can you get this for me?”

Heather opens the condom wrapper and pulls it out, reaching between their waists to roll it on. “Have you been feeling all right,” she asks, when she’s finished smoothing out the air bubbles. “You’ve been going through the Oxy like it’s candy lately.”

Matt closes his eyes and presses his forehead into the bedspread, his mood dissipating. This isn’t exactly the conversation he wants to have while he fucks his wife. “Just the usual,” he grumbles into the bed.

“The shoulder?” she asks. He feels her hand come to rest lightly on his right shoulder, the bad one.

“Yeah, the shoulder. The elbow, occasionally. You know, same old.” Matt sighs and rests his chin on her shoulder. He’s suddenly not into this anymore, and he closes his eyes, trying to get back into the right mindset. He tries to conjure an image of Heather’s breasts, but he’s too scatterbrained, and it fades away, along with his interest.

Heather sighs. “You want a rain check?”

“Sorry,” he says, closing his eyes.

“It’s okay,” she says, but he knows it’s not.

“We can try again later,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows. Both his elbow and his shoulder ache with dull, remembered pain. “I really _am_ sorry, babe.”

Heather pushes her hair out of her face and offers him a thin smile. “I know you’ve been under a lot of stress lately,” she says. Heather reaches up and brushes the back of her hand over his stubbled cheek. “Get some sleep, Matt.”

Heather slides out from under him and leans over to pick up her discarded clothes.

Matt starts gathering his clothes too, feeling ashamed. He picks her rings up off the night stand and holds them out to her. Heather takes them and slips the chain around her neck.

Once she’s finished dressing, Heather picks up the laundry basket and slips out of the room without a word.

Matt curls up in bed and eventually drifts off.

-

Matt slides his hand into his glove and closes his fingers around the baseball. Matheny drops a hand between his thighs and flashes two fingers for the curveball, amidst a flurry of signs that mean absolutely nothing, and Matt nods, confirming the pitch.

Matt steps onto the rubber and raises his knee, pivoting. Kotsay, the Padres’ slugger, tightens his grip on the handle of his bat and Matt can see his eyes narrowing as the ball comes out of his hand.

It happens in the blink of an eye. One second, the ball is on its way toward home plate and the next, there’s the crack of the bat meeting the ball and Matt doesn’t have any time to react.

The ball flies back toward the mound and in that split second, Matt realizes if he doesn’t get his hands up, it’s going to hit him flush in the face.

Matt throws his hand up and the ball glances off his fingers before skipping like a stone to Rolen at third. Pain radiates from his fingers and up his arm, and he holds his hand to his chest protectively, watching as Rolen grabs the ball in his bare hand and, in a single fluid motion, slings it to Martinez at first to just nip Kotsay at the bag.

The umpire, already kneeling in the dirt in anticipation of the play, punches his fists in the air just as Kotsay flings his arms out, calling himself safe. Satisfied, Matt steps off the mound and tries to shake the pain out of his hand.

Matheny runs up to him and pushes his mask up from his face. Smudged eyeblack streaks down Matheny’s cheeks. “Matty, how’s the hand?” Matheny slips his hand to the small of Matt’s back and gives him a gentle press.

“It’s fine. A little sore,” Matt says, holding out his hand to Matheny for the catcher to inspect for himself.

Matheny clucks his tongue like a mother hen and shakes his head. “That didn’t look good, man. You sure you’re okay?” He glances at Matt’s hand, with a skeptical eye.

“Just gimme a couple warm-up tosses and I’ll be fine,” Matt says, trying to curl his fingers into a fist, slowly. He can’t close his hand all the way, though, so he drops his arm so that Matheny can’t see. Matt raises his head and offers Matheny a smile, as if to say, ‘I’m fine. See?’

Matheny doesn’t buy his act, though, and turns toward the dugout, waving his hand. La Russa, Dave Duncan, and Barry Weinberg, the team trainer, trot out, grim expressions on their weathered faces.

“Don’t try to be the hero, Matty. It’s only July.” La Russa reaches Matt first.

“I’m fine.” Matt tries to reassure his manager and coach, flashing them a big smile.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” La Russa sticks a ball in Matt’s glove and steps away from the mound. “If I don’t like what I see, you’re coming out.”

Matt steps back onto the mound and toes the rubber. Matheny returns behind the plate and pulls his mask down over his face. He sticks his glove out and waits.

Matt can’t get a good grip on the ball, fingers already starting to swell, and his first pitch flies out of his hand and nails the screen behind home plate before ricocheting dangerously near a scrambling bat boy. Matheny stands up slowly and pushes his mask off his face, stares out at Matt and shakes his head.

La Russa puts a hand on Matt’s shoulder, and eases him off the mound. “All right, I’ve seen enough.”

“Skip, just let me throw another - ”

“Matt, you need to get some X-rays on that hand,” the trainer cuts in, taking Matt by the wrist and folding his arm at the elbow. “You might’ve broken something.”

Matt rips his ballcap off his head with his free hand and snaps it against his thigh in wordless frustration. La Russa just gives him a pat on the back before heading toward home plate, where the umpires are waiting.

Matt trudges slowly off the field, flanked by the trainer and his pitching coach. They lead Matt back to the dugout, hands resting on his back, like they think he might try to make a break for it and run back to the mound.

Matt skips down the dugout steps, ignoring his teammates’ curious looks, and heads for the clubhouse without a word.

-

A couple weeks later, Matt’s still nursing the busted finger - of fucking _course_ he’s on the disabled list, like that was ever in doubt - but he’s expecting to start in Philadelphia on Sunday. 

Matt has been looking forward to this for the last couple of weeks, dutifully marking down the days on his calendar. It’s a funny thing, being driven mad by this baseball-shaped hole in his life when it had never really bothered him that much before. He was _okay_ without baseball before. He had Heather to take his mind off things - she’d distract him with silly jokes that had stupid punchlines, all the minutiae he usually didn’t notice when he wasn’t injured, or even sex - and he still does, _she_ still does. Something’s changed, though, and he can’t put his finger - ha ha - on exactly what it is. 

The hotel the team is staying at in Philadelphia is cushy and expensive, at two-hundred bucks a night, with three-hundred count sheets, a minibar stocked full of alcohol, room service, and all the porn they could possibly imagine. Matt kind of hates it. It’s impersonal, cold. Lonely.

Matt peers through the minibar, trying to settle on what he’s going to drink first when there’s a knock on the door. 

“Who is it?” Matt yells over his shoulder, settling on an airliner-sized bottle of vodka and a carton of cranberry juice as an appetizer. 

“It’s Izzy,” the team’s closer calls out. “A buncha us are goin’ out clubbin’ to pick up girls.”

Matt rolls his eyes and looks at the bottle of vodka and carton of cranberry juice in his hands. “I’ll pass,” he replies. 

“Aw, c’mon, man. You know it’s not a party unless you’re there,” Isringhausen yells back, banging on the door again. “I’m not gonna stop ’til you agree to come out with us.” 

“Fuck off, Izzy.” Matt heads over and peers out the peephole. Isringhausen is dressed in typical club gear - tight jeans, even tighter black t-shirt, gold chains - and Matt can’t help but roll his eyes. 

“I’m -” _Bang._ “- not stopping -” _Bang._ “- until you -” _Bang._ “- open -” _Bang._ “- the -” _Bang._

Matt sighs, opening the door, and Isringhausen pauses in mid- _bang_ , arm raised, fist clenched. “Could you cut that out?” Matt steps aside to let Isringhausen in. “It’s really fucking annoying.” 

Isringhausen grins. “I know. That was the point.” He hooks an arm around Matt’s neck and yanks him out the door. “We’re gonna get you good’n wasted.” 

“Just what I was hoping for,” Matt grumbles into Isringhausen’s shoulder. 

“That’s my Matty.” Matt feels Isringhausen’s hand settle between his shoulder blades, big and warm, almost comforting. 

“Good to know I’m so fuckin’ predictable,” Matt says, no venom to his tone. 

He allows Isringhausen to guide him to the elevators, where a couple of their teammates are waiting. They’re dressed in typical club gear - lots of black leather, tight designer t-shirts tailored specifically to show off their finely sculpted, athletic bodies, lots of flashy jewelry - and Matt turns, nudges Isringhausen in the side. 

“What kind of club did you say this was, again?” 

“I didn’t,” Isringhausen says. “It’s just a dance club, Matty. You’ll love it.” He grins, clipping Matt on the shoulder. “Lots of hot chicks. Heather’ll never have to know.” 

“Oh, great. This night is off to an _awesome_ start,” Matt quips, wishing desperately that he was back in his hotel room with the mini-bar to keep him company. Also, the mini-bar would probably get him into less trouble. 

Isringhausen can apparently read his mind now, because he nudges Matt in the side and says, “Better you’re out drinkin’ with your friends, right?” 

Matt can only sigh and nod. He feels a headache pressing from the inside of his skull, throbbing hotly between his eyes. It’s like a hangover without the benefit of having been drunk. 

It’s going to be one of _those_ kinds of nights. 

\- 

Matt stumbles out of the elevators and snags a handful of Isringhausen’s t-shirt, pulling the closer along with him. “C’mon, Izzy. C’mon. C’mon.”

“Shit, man,” Isringhausen says, bumping up against Matt, his breath hot and sour on the back of his neck. “You’re totally wasted.” He places his hands on Matt’s shoulders. “Want me t’carry you back to your room?” His hands drift down to Matt’s sides.

“Fuck, man, you’re jus’ as gone as I am,” Matt mutters, knocking Isringhausen’s hands away.

“ ’m not,” Isringhausen protests, trying to get his arms around Matt in a bear hug. Matt staggers under the unexpected weight, knees buckling. “C’mon, Matty. Matty, Matty Mo. I wanna piggy back ride.”

“Fuck you, I’m not giving you a piggy back ride,” Matt hisses, trying to buck Isringhausen off his back. “You weigh, like, a million pounds, man. Get _offa_ me.”

“Carry me, ’m too drunk to walk,” Isringhausen whines, tightening his arms.

“Get off!” Matt jabs his elbow back, into Isringhausen’s stomach. “I’m not your fuckin’ designated walker service!”

“Touché.” Isringhausen doesn’t move, though.

Matt manages to stagger down a few steps, when he slips on the sleek marble and his legs suddenly go out from under him. He and Isringhausen land in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs.

“Fuck, Izzy!” Matt collapses under Isringhausen’s weight and immediately reaches for his ankle. “My ankle!”

“What’d you do?” Isringhausen touches his ankle, which is already starting to swell. Matt hisses in pain and jerks away, trying to hobble the rest of the way down the stairs. “Maybe we should go get the trainer.”

“I’m supposed to pitch on Sunday,” Matt snaps, sitting at the foot of the marble stairs. He leans over and prods gently at his ankle, which isn’t such a good idea. His injured ankle throbs with pain and Matt grits his teeth to keep from crying out.

“You want me to call Skip?” Isringhausen asks, settling next to Matt on the stairs. He puts a hand on Matt’s shoulder, but Matt shrugs away.

“No! We _can’t_ tell Skip,” he hisses, glaring at his teammate. “If we tell him about this, he’s gonna skip my start. The one I been working up to the last couple weeks. I can’t do that to him, to the team.”

“Shit, man. Your ankle’s already all swollen up,” Isringhausen says. “It really doesn’t look good.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Matt snaps, testily. He ducks his head and tugs his fingers in his unkempt hair. “Shit, Izzy. What’m I supposed to do?”

Isringhausen pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. The cracked black shell clatters to the marble floor, broken during their fall, and Isringhausen sighs. “We’ll figure something out,” he promises, giving Matt a rub between the shoulder blades. “I’m gonna look for a pay phone, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Matt follows Isringhausen with his eyes until he’s out of his line of sight. He fumbles in his pockets for his pain pills, but the plastic bottle is empty and the cap is missing. Matt lets out an unhappy, guttural growl and squeezes the plastic bottle in his fist, when he notices a tiny white pill on the floor, by his foot.

He picks it up and dusts it off. 10 milligrams. It’ll hold him over until he gets back to his hotel room.

Matt slides the pill into his mouth and swallows it dry.

He doesn’t remember too much after that.

-

The next morning, Matt hobbles into the clubhouse with a heavily wrapped ankle and a diamond-hard glare for anyone who asks him “hey, what happened to you last night, man?” 

The truth is, he doesn’t remember. He remembers Isringhausen coming to his room to collect him, and he remembers going clubbing with him and some of their teammates - to a point. Matt drank whatever he could get his hands on, and he faded out after his sixth (seventh? or was it eighth?) shot of tequila, on top of everything else he had been consuming that night. Matt recalls hazy little snatches here and there - Isringhausen macking on a cute college-age blonde, a voluptuous brunette with water-balloon tits slipping Matt her room number on a wrinkled cocktail napkin, a mouth, a pair of hands, a dirty bathroom stall - but that’s it. It burns him up inside that he can’t even remember how he hurt his fucking ankle, but he remembers getting a hand job from a random chick in a dirty, scummy bathroom stall. 

“We’re calling up Haren to take your start,” La Russa says, fatherly disappointment furrowed deep in the lines on his face. 

Matt’s chest aches a little; he hates letting La Russa down like this, yet again. He leans heavily on his crutches and bows his head, properly shamed. “Won’t happen again, Skip,” he says, “I’m sorry, Skip. It was an accident,” he says, “I’ll be more careful next time,” he says. 

“We’ll see to it that it doesn’t,” is all La Russa says, before dismissing Matt from his austere office. 

Matt hobbles back to his locker and takes a seat. He crosses his legs and picks at the Ace bandage wrapped tightly around his ankle. Matt starts to peel the bandage back to get a good look at the damage, but stops when the dull throbbing pain in his ankle starts up again and his palms begin sweating. 

Matt fishes a bottle of prescription pain meds out of his pocket and dumps two - okay, no, make that four - tiny, chalky white tablets into his palm. Matt chases them down with huge gulps from a water bottle, wishing he’d had the foresight to fill it with vodka instead. 

The rest of the evening passes by in a blur - guys filter past his locker, almost in single-file, offering condolences, acting as if someone died - and maybe they win the game, or maybe they lose. 

Matt doesn’t remember. 

\- 

Matt’s sitting in front of his locker, gently rewrapping his bum ankle when the clubhouse doors swing open and Haren bops in, slapping high fives with all the guys. Someone knocks his Cardinal-red baseball cap off and Haren stoops to pick it up, rolling the brim in his big hands. Everyone, even the veterans who were worried for their job security, is happy to see the kid.

“Long time no see, Danny!” one of the guys says. 

“Maybe I’ll actually stick around this time,” Haren says, his high, bright laughter carrying across the clubhouse to Matt’s stall. 

Matt finishes wrapping his ankle and stands, gathering his crutches. “Hey, kid.” 

Haren looks over, eyes gone wide. His dark hair is wild, unkempt, and he flattens it at the back of his neck with the pad of his thumb. “Hey, man. How’s the ankle?” 

“Not good.” Matt shakes a crutch at Haren. “I’m out for at least another two weeks.” 

“Ah, shit, man. How’d you manage that?” Haren asks, stepping over to Matt and putting a hand lightly on his shoulder. 

“Stupid accident,” Matt grumbles, leaning into Haren’s hand for support. “Fell down the stairs at the team’s hotel and twisted it pretty bad. Probably lucky I didn’t break it.” 

Haren shakes his head and clucks his tongue. A shock of hair falls in front of his eye and Haren pushes it back, tucking it into place behind his ear. “Well. Just hang in there, man.” He gives Matt’s shoulder an almost imperceptible squeeze. 

Matt laughs. “Can’t really do anything else,” he quips. Haren’s hand is warm and steadying, and Matt feels like he’s enjoying the contact way too much, so he stutter-steps to his locker, grunting with exertion as he still isn’t used to the crutches yet. “You wanna come out with me and a couplea the guys for drinks tonight?” 

Haren shrugs one-shoulderedly. “Sure, I guess. Sounds good to me.” 

Matt looks over at him, catches Haren’s gaze. His eyes are just as keen and blue as the first time Matt saw him. “Swing by my hotel room around eight then, okay?” 

Haren smiles, presses his index and middle finger to his forehead in a military salute. “Aye aye, captain.”

-

Matt reaches into the minibar, the door swinging on its hinges, and pulls out a couple airliner bottles of vodka - reinforcements. He slips them into his pocket, where they clink against his plastic bottle of pain pills. 

The digital alarm clock on the night stand says **7:56** in big, boxy red numbers. 

Matt’s palms are sweating again, but not because he hasn’t taken his medication. He wipes his hands on the front of his shirt and limps to the bathroom. He’s going to leave the crutches behind. Matt just hopes he doesn’t fuck his ankle up even more than he already has. Of course, it’ll probably happen now that he’s thought about it. It would be just his luck. 

There’s a knock on his door and Matt hobbles over to let Haren in. 

“Hey.” Matt moves aside and Haren slips past him. 

“Nice place you got for yourself,” Haren says, head on a swivel, surveying Matt’s suite. “How come _I_ don’t get a room this swanky?” 

“ ‘Cause you’re a rookie,” Matt says, heading over to the minibar. He pulls out a couple beers and holds one out to Haren. “You thirsty?” 

“Aren’t we going out to a bar later?” Haren quirks an eyebrow, but accepts the proffered beer anyway. 

“Lubrication,” Matt jokes. He takes a beer for himself and bumps the minibar door shut with his hip. 

Haren smirks and snaps the beer tab open. "Whatever you say, man." He takes a long pull, Adam’s apple bobbing as he chugs deeply. 

Matt watches, hand curled loosely around his beer can. When Haren finally pulls the can from his mouth and smacks his lips loudly, Matt takes a small, measured sip of his own. 

“You excited about the start?” Matt asks. 

“ ’Course I am,” Haren says, settling down on the end of Matt’s bed with his beer. "You excited to be sitting on the bench tonight?" 

Matt rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a smart-ass, Danny. Nobody likes a smart-ass.” 

Haren raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t say you could call me Danny,” he says affably. 

"You’ll live." 

“That’s what _you_ think,” Haren says, taking a sip of beer. 

Matt sets his beer aside and settles on the spare bed. Haren is sitting cross-legged, long arms draped over his knees, shaggy hair spilling into his eyes. The low light of the night stand lamp catches the lines and valleys of his face, infusing Haren with a warm, golden glow that chases the charcoal gray shadows away. 

“What?” Haren’s voice cuts through Matt’s thoughts, and he realizes he’s been caught staring. 

“Nothing,” Matt says, rolling onto his back. He sighs. “I don’t really wanna go out with the guys tonight.”

“Didn’t think so,” Haren mutters. Matt hears the rustling of fabric and the creaking of the mattress as Haren spreads out on the bed. 

“How’d you know?” Matt asks. 

“You’re not that difficult to figure out.” 

Matt rolls onto his side and tucks his hand under his chin. Haren looks back at him, slides his hands over his chest. “Is that why you - you know,” Matt says, waving a hand in the air in Haren’s general direction. 

“No, I don’t know,” Haren says. 

“You know. ’s that why you liked me? You could read me?”

“I dunno, man,” Haren says. “This really a conversation you wanna be having right now?”

“We never did talk about it,” Matt reminds him. 

Haren snorts. “You kinda freaked out on me, man.” 

“I didn’t freak out on you, Danny,” Matt insists gently, but maybe he did. He’d thought at the time that he handled things pretty well, but maybe he did freak out a little on the kid.

“Dude, you totally freaked out,” Haren says. “You practically tried to get us into a car accident just so you wouldn’t have to deal with it.”

Matt turns this over in his mind. “Well, okay, I don’t know about _that_ , but maybe you’re right that I freaked out.”

“Why did you? Beyond the obvious, I mean,” Haren says. “I was so sure I read you right.”

Matt opens his mouth to speak, but the words die on his tongue. He tries again. “Who _wouldn’t_ , Danny?”

“I’m _not_ wrong about people. I wasn’t wrong about you.” Matt hears the creaking of mattress springs and he raises his head. Haren gets up and crouches by the side of Matt’s bed so that they’re eye level. “I was right about you, wasn’t I?”

Matt can feel himself shift away, as Haren leans in. “Maybe you were right - that we shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“C’mon, man,” Haren says. He nudges Matt aside gently and crawls in next to him. Haren lays out and slips his hands back over his chest. “There’s something here. We both know it.”

“You’re really not gonna let this drop?” Matt laces his fingers together and twiddles his thumbs.

“Nope,” Haren says, flash of a smirk at the corner of Matt’s vision.

Matt groans and tucks his face against Haren’s shoulder. “Fuck you.”

Haren crooks the corner of his mouth into a full-on smirk. “Maybe.”

Matt scowls. “I’m too old for games, kid,” he grunts.

Haren laughs and pushes his bare arm into Matt’s and lines their fingers up, pressing the backs of their hands together. “If you’re too old for games, whaddaya think’s gonna happen?” Haren pauses. “Here, with us, I mean.”

Matt shrugs. “Who says anything’s gonna happen, anyway?” The feel of the cheap hotel comforter under him isn’t comforting at all. It’s starchy and scratchy against his bare skin, and it’s really weird that _this_ is what he’s concentrating on. The mind works in mysterious ways when it doesn’t want to confront something.

“Why wouldn’t it?” Haren’s fingers twitch lightly against Matt’s.

“I might change my mind about you.” Matt twitches his fingers back.

“Now why would you go and do something like that?” Haren asks.

“ ’Cause I have a brain and I know how to use it?” Matt suggests.

Haren snorts. “Well, _I’ve_ got a dick, and - ” he begins.

“Maybe you should use your brain instead,” Matt says.

Haren reaches up, fists his hand in the front of Matt’s shirt and pulls him down, pressing his mouth over Matt’s. Haren’s mouth is soft - softer than Matt had been expecting - and wet, and he can taste a hint of Jameson on the kid’s tongue. He sucks Haren’s tongue into his mouth and drinks him in, curling his fingers loosely in Haren’s hair.

Haren gasps into his mouth and Matt feels the kid’s fingertips dig into his back. Matt slides his own hand out of Haren’s hair and down his back, slips his fingers under Haren’s t-shirt. 

Matt rolls Haren onto his back and settles over him, breaking the kiss. He brushes the kid’s hair out of eyes and scratches his fingernails lightly against Haren’s scalp.

“What?” Haren asks, reaching up and knocking Matt’s hand out of his hair.

“What’re we doing here?” Matt asks, breathing hard, like he’s just done wind sprints in the outfield before a game.

“Seems kind of self-explanatory to me,” Haren says, arching his hips up against Matt’s.

“Yeah, I mean - ” Matt stops himself short and shakes his head.

“What is it?” Haren asks, sounding impatient, tugging at the front of Matt’s shirt.

“You ever done this before?” he asks, bracing himself over Haren, ever mindful of his injured ankle.

Haren slaps a hand over his face, laughing. “Dude.”

“What,” Matt asks, trying to ignore the slight strain building in his shoulder. He wobbles and weaves before collapsing on top of Haren with a _whoosh_ of air punched out of his lungs.

Haren slips a hand to Matt’s back and rubs up and down slowly, in long strokes. “ ’Course I’ve done this before,” he says, still rubbing. “Mostly in college, though. What about you?”

Matt shrugs into Haren’s touch. “Yeah. A little here and there. Never really messed around with a teammate before, though.”

“Really?” Haren slides his hand up the back of Matt’s neck and into his hair. “Kinda surprising. Figured you’d be all over that, you know. Naked ballplayers and all.”

“Speak for yourself,” Matt mumbles wetly into the side of Haren’s neck. He’s suddenly so tired, heavy-limbed. Matt closes his eyes.

“Dude, you okay?” Haren asks.

“ ’m fine, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seem kinda - I dunno.” Haren slips his arm around Matt’s neck. “You gonna pass out on me or something?”

“Maybe,” Matt admits. “I took a lot of Oxy earlier.” He laughs and closes his eyes, tucking an arm under his chin. Haren’s hand is big and warm on his neck.

“Shit, man. How are you even conscious right now?” Haren scrambles underneath Matt until he’s in a sitting position. He places his palm over Matt’s forehead. “You’re kinda sweaty. You feelin’ okay?”

Matt rests his chin on Haren’s knee and closes his eyes. “I guess.”

“How many did you take?” Haren asks, shaking him gently.

“Uh, I think six.”

“C’mon, I’m taking you to the hospital,” Haren says.

“What? Why?” Matt asks.

“Because you just overdosed, idiot.” Haren gets out of bed and tugs Matt to his feet. “Where are your crutches?”

“I don’t need to go to the hospital, Danny,” Matt says, grabbing onto the front of Haren’s shirt. “What I _need_ is another drink.”

“That’s not gonna help you any.” Haren loops an arm behind Matt’s neck and helps him to his crutches, which are propped up against the TV set.

“Okay, Mom,” Matt quips, grabbing for his crutches.

“Look, man, I don’t want you, like, slipping into a coma on me, okay? I kinda like you.” Haren leans forward to grab one of the crutches and Matt sways. Haren knots a hand in the front of Matt’s t-shirt to hold him into place and grabs the crutch.

“You like me?” Matt lets the crutch drop to the floor.

Haren sighs. “Would I be helping you out if I didn’t like you? Here, lean against the wall or something, so you don’t fall over.” Haren props Matt against the wall and bends down to pick up the fallen crutch, securing it under Matt’s arm. “There.”

Matt manages to get hold of the other crutch and hobbles to the door. “You _like_ me,” he repeats.

Somewhere behind him, indistinct and fuzzy, static, Haren says, “Yeah, I do, you asshole.”

-

Matt’s sitting on the end of the plastic-and-paper-covered emergency room bed when Haren pokes his head between the curtains. 

“How you holdin’ up?” he asks.

A robotic shell of a female voice drones _Dr. Simpson to the emergency room, Dr. Simpson to the emergency room_ overhead, to the beat of the incessant beeping of heart monitors.

Matt shrugs, rubbing a hand over his stomach. “ ’ve been better,” he says.

“What’d the doctor say?” Haren slips inside the curtains and closes them behind him.

“He said they’d keep it under the radar - ”

“Yeah,” Haren interrupts, “that’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” Matt looks up and smiles, squinting into the lights. “Doctor said I should be fine.”

Haren settles next to Matt on the end of the bed and starts swinging his legs like a bored kid. He slips a hand between his shoulder blades and starts rubbing, ducking his head to rest his temple on Matt’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he says.

Matt tips his head to the side until he feels Haren’s hair scratch against the side of his face. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Haren mumbles something into Matt’s shoulder that gets lost amidst the beeping heart monitors and the robotic disembodied voice and the fog that’s settled in his brain.

“Hm?” Matt asks.

Haren slips his arm behind Matt and curls his fingers in the back of his shirt. “Me too.”

-

They pass a Denny’s on the way back to the hotel, and Haren suddenly swerves into oncoming traffic before throwing the truck into reverse and screeching into the Denny’s lot.

“What are you doing?” Matt clings to the armrest, stomach lurching.

“I’m hungry. And you look like you could use something to eat too,” Haren says, putting the truck back into drive and pulling into an empty spot. 

“You could’ve gotten us killed,” Matt groans.

Haren laughs. “I figured I owed you one for the drive to the airport,” he says, reaching over to pat Matt on the leg. He snags the keys and hops out of the truck, flipping them over to Matt.

The keys glance off the tips of Matt’s fingers and land on the asphalt. “I thought you were paid to throw things for a living,” Matt quips, bending over to pick them up.

“I’m paid to throw _baseballs_. I’m not paid to throw keys.” Haren steps up behind Matt, gives him a slap on the back, and heads into the restaurant.

Matt follows after, slightly dazed. His head is reeling, and he feels like he’s just been hit with a hurricane.

Haren’s already seated himself and is flipping through a menu when Matt steps into the restaurant. Matt joins him in the booth he’s picked out and grabs a laminated menu for himself.

“What looks good here?” Matt flips it open.

“The Grand Slam, duh. Who goes to Denny’s and doesn’t order the Grand Slam?” Haren sounds personally offended by the question.

“Me, apparently.” Matt settles on scrambled eggs and hash browns, and puts the menu aside.

“You’re no fun,” Haren chides. “The Grand Slam is what it’s all about, man. It’s the main attraction.”

“It’s also probably got lethal amounts of butter and salt in it, too,” Matt says.

“Dude, you ingest OxyContin like it’s - ”

“I’ve heard this speech before,” Matt grumbles.

“ - like it’s candy,” Haren continues on, as if Matt hasn’t spoken, “and you’re gonna worry about a little butter or salt on your eggs and hash browns?”

“When’d _you_ become my baby-sitter?” Matt asks.

A waiter brings out glasses of water and sets them down on small napkins. He stands there, waiting, looking squirrelly and uncomfortable.

“I appointed myself your baby-sitter when you OD’d - ” Haren starts.

“I think the waiter’s ready to take our orders,” Matt interrupts him, giving him a pointed glare.

Haren ignores him, handing off their menus. “Two Grand Slam breakfasts, thanks.”

Matt raises his hand. “Actually, I’d just like scrambled eggs and - ”

“Just get the Grand Slam and give me the stuff you don’t want, then,” Haren says. “C’mon, the man is waiting.”

Matt glares at Haren and turns back to the waiter, offering him a phony smile. “Sure, that’d be great. Thanks.”

The waiter tucks his notepad back in his apron and heads off, giving them both odd looks.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Haren sits back and takes a sip of his water.

Matt just shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair. “What the hell was that all about?”

“What was _what_ all about?”

“I wanted the fucking eggs.”

“The Grand Slam comes with eggs - ”

“No,” Matt says, feeling irrationally petty, “I wanted the eggs and hash browns, and you totally ignored me and ordered something I didn’t even want.” He drops his hands onto the Formica table top.

Haren laughs and sits back, kicking his legs up and resting his feet on the empty plastic seat cushion next to Matt. “Dude, you need to make some fundamental changes in your life.”

“Starting with breakfast, apparently,” Matt says. 

“With everything.”

“Why’s it matter to you?” Matt asks.

“Like I said earlier.” Haren shrugs and doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Like you said earlier,” Matt echoes, prompting Haren to continue.

Haren looks up, narrowing his eyes. “You don’t remember what I said?”

“No, not really,” Matt says, which is kind of a lie. He remembers everything - at least, everything that happened after the doctors gave him some drugs to counteract the damage the Oxy and alcohol were wreaking on his body. They’d made him way too aware of everything - his surroundings, the hospital, Haren, everything - and he’d longed immediately for the veil of the pain killers.

Haren sighs. “I told you I liked you,” he says.

“I kind of figured that out,” Matt says. He picks up a napkin and starts shredding the edges. “I like you too. You’re a cool kid. Weird, but cool.”

“I could say the same about you. Anyways,” Haren says, “the whole overdose thing, and spending, like, four hours with you in the hospital, it got me thinking.”

“Uh oh.” Matt continues to shred the napkin. “Didn’t you ever watch _Bull Durham_ , kid? Don’t think. It can only hurt the ballclub.”

Haren ignores him. He’s on a roll, apparently. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I do just fine,” Matt says, tossing the napkin aside.

“No you don’t.” Haren sips his water.

The waiter appears, steaming plates of food in hand, and sets them in front of Matt and the kid. “If you’d like anything else, please let me know.”

“Thanks.” Matt pokes listlessly at his scrambled eggs, and when Haren swipes his bacon, he doesn’t move to stop him.

Haren just shrugs. “So, I guess we can talk about this later, if you want,” he says.

“Okay.” Matt shovels a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

He doesn’t bring it up again, and neither does Haren.

-

It’s Matt’s idea to celebrate when Haren notches his first career Major League win a couple weeks later in Los Angeles. His idea of a celebration entails busting into the hotel minibar, though, and Haren is clearly not impressed.

“This is the lamest post-victory celebration in the history of _ever_ ,” Haren complains, stamping his feet like a petulant child. 

“You got a better idea?” Matt opens the minibar and picks a small bottle of whiskey. He unscrews the cap and raises it to his lips.

“You wanna toke up instead?” Haren reaches into a pocket in his duffel bag and pulls out a Ziploc bag that’s been rolled into a tube. He waves the plastic bag at Matt in what he thinks is probably an enticing manner, and waggles his eyebrows.

Matt rolls his eyes at him. “Wait. So, taking Oxy to make myself feel better is _bad_ , but using pot for no discernible reason, other than to get high, is good,” Matt says, turning from the minibar to stare at Haren in disbelief. Haren has spread his inventory out on Matt’s bed. Matt notes a Ziploc baggie of joints, a colorfully decorated wooden pipe, a matchbook, and a pile of Doritos snacks. He tips his head back and takes a slug of whiskey.

“Pot mellows you out, man. Oxy is just bad news. You can’t OD on pot either.” Haren picks his duffel bag up and dumps its contents out on Matt’s bed. “Go pack some towels under the door, man. I’ll get everything set up.” Haren lifts his ass off the mattress and fishes a mother-of-pearl lighter out of his back pocket.

Matt rolls up a couple towels he finds in the bathroom and packs them under the door. “If anyone could, I bet it would be you,” Matt says, sinking onto the bed, across from Haren. Matt watches as Haren reaches into his Ziploc baggie and pulls out a joint.

“Not like I haven’t tried, dude,” Haren says, with a lazy grin. He pinches the joint between his thumb and index finger and flicks the cap of the lighter off. “It’s literally impossible, by the way.” Haren lights the joint and closes his eyes, sucking it between his lips and hollowing his cheeks.

Matt watches Haren, his pursed lips, the joint captured between them. “You gonna let me have a hit or not?” he finally asks.

Haren blinks his eyes open and offers Matt a lazy smile. He wags his hand at Matt to come closer and he does. Haren slides his lips over Matt’s and blows the smoke into his mouth, fingers curled in the shoulder of Matt’s t-shirt.

Matt breathes in the smoke and exhales it, lips curving in a slow smile. “Haven’t done this since college,” he laughs, against Haren’s mouth.

“ ’s just like riding a bike, isn’t it?” Haren asks. He plucks the joint from between Matt’s fingers and sucks on it. 

Matt’s smile widens into a grin. “Thought that was sex.”

Haren chokes out a puff of smoke and hands off the joint. “How ’bout both?” Haren coughs.

Matt takes a hit and examines the joint. “I don’t feel anything.” He hands it back to Haren.

Haren laughs and reclines, crossing his legs. He bobs his foot to the unfamiliar rock music coming from his stereo. “It takes a few minutes to kick in, Mr. Instant Gratification.” Haren takes a long drag and blows out a ring of smoke.

“I think I’ll stick to my drug of choice from now on,” Matt says, but he takes the joint from Haren when he offers it, anyway.

Matt takes a drag and hands it back to Haren. He drops it into a ceramic ashtray on the night stand and pulls Matt in, sliding his lips over Matt’s. Matt exhales the smoke slowly into his mouth. 

“Pot’s more fun.” Haren slips his hand under Matt’s shirt and creeps his fingers up Matt’s back. “You’ll start feeling it soon.” 

Matt settles next to him in the bed and Haren pushes his shirt up, scritches his fingertips over his stomach. Matt laughs and presses his hand over Haren’s on his abdomen.

“Tickles.”

“Yeah,” Haren says, and does it again. This time they both burst into high-pitched giggles when Matt’s stomach jumps under Haren’s touch. “Ticklish?”

“Never was before,” Matt says, following the movement of Haren’s fingers.

“Well, now you are.” Haren’s hands squirrel under Matt’s shirt, push it up his chest. Matt helps Haren slip the shirt from around his neck, and Haren discards it. He sits back and allows his eyes to sweep over Matt’s bare chest, and Matt feels like he’s been put on display.

“What?” he asks, suddenly modest. Matt moves to cross his arms over his chest, but Haren reaches out, slipping a hand over his wrist.

“No,” he says, pushing Matt’s hand down gently. “Don’t hide.”

Matt scrunches his brow. “I’m not hiding.”

“I wanna look at you,” Haren says.

Matt laughs uncomfortably and starts squirming. “I feel naked.”

“Well, you’re wearing pants. Just take off those pants and you _will_ be.” Haren grins, cheeks dimpling.

Matt is starting to see why everyone loves the kid. He’s got everything going for him. If they were competing for the same spot in the rotation, Matt would probably hate him. “You’re so - ”

“Dashingly handsome?” Haren asks, reaching up to play with Matt’s hair. He tugs it in front of Matt’s eyes.

“I was gonna say lame,” Matt laughs.

Haren leans in and kisses him, slipping his hand into Matt’s hair, tugging him close. Matt presses back, sliding his tongue slowly into Haren’s mouth. He lets his hand slide down Haren’s back, traces the wing of Haren’s shoulder blade.

This kiss is better than the first, and Matt’s thankful he’s sober enough, despite the pot he’d just smoked, to enjoy it. He can taste it still, on Haren’s breath, sweet and piney. Matt licks his tongue into Haren’s mouth again and presses a hand to the back of his neck, holding him there.

Haren doesn’t try to go anywhere, though. He slips an arm around Matt’s neck and pushes him back, against the pillows. He climbs over him, swinging a leg over Matt’s, and starts pressing light little kisses over his mouth, his cheeks, forehead, eyelids.

Matt starts to laugh. “What’re you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” Haren kisses him again, hard enough that his teeth cut into Matt’s bottom lip, a hand on his neck. He pulls back, looking down at Matt, his bright blue eyes shining.

“What?” Matt presses a hand lightly against Haren’s ribs.

“Nothing.” Haren kisses him again, briefly. “You wanna fuck?”

“Sure.” Matt arches up to kiss him, one hand roaming slowly down Haren’s back. “You got condoms and shit?”

“Yeah. Just gimme a sec.” Haren rolls off him, onto his pile of pot paraphernalia and snacks, and knocks them onto the carpet.

Matt crosses his arms underneath his head and looks up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of Haren digging around in his duffel bag. Haren leaps back into the bed and drops a strip of condoms and lube between them.

Matt looks over at him. “How do you wanna do this?”

“Whaddaya mean?” Haren asks.

“You know,” Matt says, rolling his eyes. “You want me to fuck you? Or do you wanna do the fucking?”

Haren starts laughing, face scrunched up like a puppy’s. “Oh, jeez. Sorry.”

Matt rubs the heel of his hand over Haren’s stomach. “What’ll it be?”

“What do _you_ wanna do?” Haren asks, still swallowing back giggles.

“Actually, ’m kinda hungry.” Matt gnaws on Haren’s shoulder, wetly, and bursts into giggles. “You taste good.”

“Don’t eat me,” Haren laughs, slipping his hand back under Matt’s shirt.

“I can think of better things to do to you,” Matt says, grinning and waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Haren throws his leg over Matt’s and presses into him, and Matt tips his head back, letting out a soft, rapturous sigh. Haren flashes a wicked smirk his way. “Then shut up and let’s get down to business.”

-

Matt emerges from the shower the next morning and wipes the steam off the mirror with the palm of his hand. He looks like shit, which has been par for the course for the last - however long he can remember, really. He doesn’t _feel_ like shit, though, which is new. He almost doesn’t remember how not feeling like shit feels.

He smiles and his haggard mirror image smiles back. The bags under his eyes are practically canyon-sized. He’s sure astronauts can probably see them from space.

The bathroom door opens suddenly and Matt jumps a mile, thoughts scattering like leaves, as Haren saunters in behind him and lifts the toilet seat.

“Good morning to you too,” Matt grumbles, getting out his toothbrush and tube of toothpaste.

“Mornin’,” Haren says. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes.

Matt nods to himself and squeezes some Colgate onto his toothbrush. He slides a sidelong glance toward Haren, who’s still standing in front of the toilet. “Would you like me to leave?”

“No, you’re good,” Haren says, reaching into his boxers.

Matt nods again, mostly to himself, and runs water into the sink. “Huh.” He sticks the toothbrush into his mouth and starts brushing. “This isn’t awkward at all,” he tries to say around the toothbrush, but it comes out sounding like, “Th’ ’s n’awkward ’t all.”

Haren just grunts, finishes up and shakes himself off before tucking himself back into his boxers.

Matt leans over the sink and rinses his mouth out with warm water, before patting his face down with a dry hand towel. Haren joins him and turns the faucet on, running water over his hands.

Matt looks over and watches Haren as he soaps his hands up, and then rinses them off.

“Sleep good?” Matt asks.

“Mhm. You?” Haren picks the towel from Matt’s hands and uses it to dry off.

“Same.” Matt reaches out, like he’s going to push Haren’s shaggy hair out of his eyes, but he thinks better of it and drops his hand.

“What?” Haren looks at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Nothing,” Matt says, shaking his head. He smiles a little. “You need a haircut.”

“Look who’s talking.” Haren crowds into Matt’s personal space and they try to maneuver around one another, awkwardly. Haren pauses, smiling at Matt, before leaning across him to grab his bag of toiletries. “Hypocrite.”

“What’s wrong with my hair,” Matt asks, with a hint of laughter.

Haren leans in and threads his fingers through Matt’s dark, unkempt hair. “What _isn’t_ wrong with your hair?” he asks, giving a gentle tug.

Matt reaches up and untangles Haren’s fingers from his hair. “Leave my hair alone, man,” he says, unable to help but smile.

Haren laughs. “You’re such a dork.”

“What’s that make _you_ , then?”

“Not a dork, for sure,” Haren says, smiling.

“Think that makes you something worse. Like a nerd.” Matt widens his eyes in mock horror.

“Whatever, at least I’m not a dork.” Haren leans in and presses his lips against Matt’s, chastely.

Matt laughs into his mouth, looping an arm loosely around Haren’s neck. “Right, ’course not.” Matt scritches his fingers in Haren’s hair.

Haren’s hand drifts down Matt’s side, to the towel wrapped around his waist. “Don’t sound like you believe that.”

“Might need to be convinced,” Matt says.

“What do I have to do?” Haren asks.

Matt drapes an arm loosely around Haren’s shoulders. “I think you’ll be able to figure it out on your own.”

“That’s no fun.” Haren scoffs. He tugs at the towel and pulls it from around Matt’s waist. The towel drops between them and Haren leans in. Matt meets him midway, and brings their mouths together. The soft cotton of Haren’s t-shirt scritches against Matt’s bare, damp skin, and he slides his hands under it.

Matt mumbles, “Off,” against Haren’s lips and Haren lifts his arms so that Matt can tug the shirt from around his head.

“You really sure this is such a good idea?” Haren asks, as he pushes Matt back against the bathroom sink. The marble of the sink basin presses into the small of Matt’s back, a flash of cold that sends shivers up his spin. “What if we get caught?” Haren presses against him, bracing himself on the counter.

Matt puts an arm out to keep his balance. “We’d both be screwed,” he groans. The friction is building, rough and hot against his bare skin, and part of him wants to throw Haren off of himself and get down to business. The other part, however, is enjoying this, and that’s the part that’s apparently in control of his motor skills.

Haren grinds slowly into Matt, still wearing that smirk of his that Matt alternately wants to kiss and smack off his face. “You’d probably be more screwed than me. I’m just a rookie, I dunno any better.” Haren pulls back just enough to get his hand between them.

Matt pauses, hoping that Haren will touch him, but he doesn’t. He can feel Haren’s knuckles moving against the soft skin of his stomach as he slips his hand into his boxers. 

“I’m the vet, though,” Matt says, reaching down, locking his fingers with Haren’s. “I’ve got pull.”

Haren laughs, and closes his fingers around Matt’s, moving them to the waistband of his boxers. “Oh, you do, do you?”

Matt lets Haren guide their hands downward, slipping his boxers down his thighs. “Yep.” Matt watches Haren, waiting for him to make the next move.

Haren leans into Matt again and gets his hand around both of them. His breath is warm against the side of Matt’s neck, and when he speaks the syllables vibrate damply into Matt’s skin. “Why don’t you show me some of that,” he mumbles.

Matt closes his eyes and slides a hand into Haren’s messy hair. He lets his other hand drift down to meet Haren’s, and they begin to stroke in unison. Haren moves his mouth down Matt’s neck, over his jugular, and he uses his teeth, lightly. Matt jumps a little and he feels Haren tug his mouth into a smile.

“Fucker,” Matt breathes, opening his eyes.

“You like that?” Haren does it again and licks the mark he leaves behind. 

He slides his hips against Matt’s, tightens his hand around the both of them, and Matt has to bite on the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out. He tastes something bitter and copper on his tongue; his teeth have gone through the skin.

“You close, Matty?” Haren pauses, taking deep breathes, and braces himself against Matt. 

“Just keep doing what you’re doing, okay?” Matt is amazed he can form complete sentences.

Haren chuckles and responds with a firm thrust. Matt digs his fingers into Haren’s shoulder, hard enough to hurt, and thrusts back.

“Want me to stop?” Haren asks, his tone light and teasing.

Matt groans and gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Fuck, no.”

“Just checking.” Haren slides his free hand down Matt’s back and brings their hips together and grinds slowly against him.

Matt tightens his hand spasmodically on Haren’s back; it probably won’t take much more to send him over the edge. He thinks Haren senses that too, because he stops thrusting against him and begins to stroke his dick, straightforwardly, intently focused on getting Matt off.

He’s standing at the edge and Haren is going to push him off. Matt bites down on the heel of his palm and braces for impact.

“Come for me, Matty,” Haren whispers, urgently, giving him a twist of his wrist.

Matt’s teeth break the skin on the back of his pitching hand, and he does just as Haren asks.

-

Matt’s icing down the back of his hand in Weinberg’s office-cum-medical-station when Tomko walks in, pitching shoulder and arm wrapped in Ace bandages and plastic wrap, and climbs onto one of the trainer’s tables.

“What happened to the hand?” Tomko asks, nodding to Matt.

Matt pulls the ice pack off his hand and examines the deep indentations. “It got stepped on,” he says, laughing embarrassedly. “I was taking a nap on the clubhouse floor and Stephenson spiked me. Can you believe that?”

Tomko laughs and shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “Tough luck, man.”

“I’ll say.” Matt laughs again and replaces the ice pack. He glances at Tomko, nods to the shoulder. “How’s the shoulder feeling?”

“Pretty good. I think I’m doing better than you are.” 

Matt and Tomko share a laugh that withers away when Haren waltzes in.

“Hey, what happened to your hand? ’s gross.” He sits next to Matt and pokes at the back of his hand. “It’s all nasty and pus-y.”

“Is not.” Matt shifts Haren a wary sideglance before looking back over at Tomko. The other pitcher has stretched out on the trainer’s table and covered his face with his forearm. Matt gets his elbow into Haren’s side and pushes him away.

“What?” Haren asks.

“Personal boundaries, Haren,” Matt says, nodding toward Tomko.

“Oh, whatever.” Haren shrugs and sits back, crossing his legs and bobbing his foot. 

“We oughtta be - careful,” Matt mutters under his breath.

“Well, duh.” Haren laughs. 

“So, no getting up in my personal space in front of teammates, okay?” Matt says.

Haren rolls his eyes. “I’m not _that_ dumb, man. I got a career to think about too.”

Matt nods, relieved. “ ’Course you do, Danny. Just making sure.”

Haren leans into his shoulder and crosses his arms over his chest. “You got nothing to worry about.”

Matt sits back and starts tugging at the leg of his uniform pants with his unoccupied hand. “Good.”

-

Matt’s first mistake is inviting Haren to stay in the spare bedroom in his and Heather’s place. 

“He doesn’t have his own place?” Heather asks, after she finds Matt in the guest bedroom, putting sheets on a bed in a room that hasn’t been used since they bought the place in 2000, and he explains the situation to her.

“He’s been staying at the Four Seasons since he came up,” Matt says, as he throws an old comforter onto the bed and begins to tuck it in. “Our place is definitely cheaper.”

Heather sighs from the doorway. “I wish you would’ve asked me about this beforehand,” she says.

Matt glances at her and offers her a smile. “He’s a good kid, Heather. I’m sure you’ll like having him around,” he says.

“I’m sure he _is_ ,” Heather agrees, shaking her head and laughing a little. “I just wish you would’ve said something. Considering this _is_ our house, you know.”

“Would you have said no?” Matt asks.

“No, but that’s not the point.” Heather steps into the room and pulls the sleeve of her sweatshirt down over her hand. She starts rubbing at the top of the dresser.

“I don’t really see what the problem is then,” Matt says, turning from the bed to Heather.

She tosses him a _look_ over her shoulder and turns her attention back to the old dresser. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

“What?” Matt asks.

Heather turns and puts her hands on her hips. “You seem to have forgotten that this is house belongs to me just as much as it belongs to you,” she says. “You didn’t even ask me. You just went ahead and said yes.”

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t come to you first - ” Matt begins, but Heather waves him off.

“You’ve been acting strange lately,” she says, letting her arms flop to her sides. “I was talking with Lorrie, and she thinks - ”

“Heather, please don’t tell me you’re gossiping with Lorrie Isringhausen about me,” Matt groans.

“Dammit, Matt. It seems like _Lorrie_ knows more about you lately than I do,” Heather snaps, reaching up to push her hair out of her face. “If it weren’t for you and Jason being drinking buddies, I probably wouldn’t know anything about you.”

“That’s not true,” Matt insists, softly. He tries to touch her wrist, but she pulls her hand away.

“Jason told me about the painkillers,” Heather says.

The accusation stings, just like he assumes it was meant to.

“What?” Matt asks. “What are you talking about?”

“Jason told me that you had to go to the hospital,” Heather says, clenching her tiny hands into fists. “You couldn’t even tell me? I had to hear about this from Jason Isringhausen!”

“I didn’t want to upset you,” Matt tries, but even he knows how weak an excuse it is.

“How could you _keep_ something like that from me?”

“It was such a mess. I didn’t want to drag you into it, Heather,” Matt tries again.

“Jason knew, Lorrie knew, and Tony knew, but not me. Hell, even _Haren_ knew,” Heather says, opening her fists and flexing her fingers. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

Matt stares at her, and for a second, it feels like everything is crashing down on his head. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, you obviously don’t see any problems with keeping a fucking _overdose_ from me. _What else aren’t you telling me_?” Heather repeats.

“Nothing, Heather, I swear,” Matt says, reaching for her. To his surprise, she lets him put his hands on her shoulders. Matt pulls her against his chest. 

“I don’t know if I believe you,” she says into his chest.

Matt puts an arm around her neck and strokes her hair gently with his other hand. “I’m sorry, Heather,” he says, closing his eyes. “I should have told you. You’re right.”

“Someone should’ve,” she mutters, pulling herself out of his embrace. Heather rubs the sleeve of her sweatshirt over her eyes. “Next time anything serious happens, please call me. Okay? I don’t want to find out from _Jason_ that my husband died.”

“That’s not going to happen, Heather. I promise,” Matt says, offering her a hopeful smile.

Heather doesn’t smile back. She flips her hair out of her face and rolls up the sleeves of her sweatshirt. “I guess I should go get dinner started then,” she says, her tone deceptively gentle. Heather slips past him and out of the room before he can touch her.

Matt sighs and slumps back against the wall, scrubs his hands over his face.

This is going to be a mess.

-

To Matt’s surprise, things don’t go as badly as he’d been expecting them to. Heather seems to warm up to the idea of having someone else in the house. Matt kind of thinks it’s because she’s tired of him, but he doesn’t bring it up. He doesn’t want to press his luck.

He’s also not really sure what Heather thinks Haren is to him. He isn’t even certain that she doesn’t know they fuck around. Heather’s a smart woman. She’s been around professional athletes almost as long as Matt has, first as a sportswriter and then as a baseball player’s wife. If anyone could figure it out, Matt knows it would be Heather.

Heather’s in the kitchen, pouring over a cookbook, when he steps up behind her and rests his chin on her shoulder. Matt slips an arm around her waist and presses his face into her hair. It smells fresh, like green apples.

“What is it?” she asks, leaning only slightly back into his chest.

“Nothing,” he says into her cloud of blonde hair. “ ’m sorry,” he adds, almost in an afterthought.

“What for?” Heather asks, flipping a page of her cookbook.

“You deserve better. I feel like you settled, sometimes,” he says.

Heather pulls away from him, out from under his arms, and turns, raising her eyebrows skeptically at him. “You think I _settled_?”

Matt lets his arms drop to his sides. “Yeah, sometimes,” he says, with a shrug.

Heather shakes her head and glances back at the cookbook. “I didn’t _settle_ for you.”

“Are you _happy_ though?” Matt presses on, reaching for her. He slides a hand over her arm and pulls her back in. “Is this the life you imagined?”

“You’re being silly,” she says, running a hand along his arm.

Matt presses his mouth against the top of her head. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Heather sighs. “It hasn’t exactly been easy, but . . .” She trails off.

“But what?” Matt asks.

“I wouldn’t change anything,” she says, stilling her hand on his forearm. 

“No? You wouldn’t trade me in for a better model?” he asks, keeping his tone light, and somewhere at the back of his mind, he’s aware that he’s only semi-joking. He tightens his grip a little around her waist. This line of questioning scares him and he only has himself to blame.

“Of course not,” Heather scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She pauses and leans back to get a good look at him. “What about you? Would you trade _me_ in if a better model came along?”

Matt gives her a very serious look. “Only if it came with bigger boobs,” he deadpans.

Heather whacks him lightly in the chest, but she’s smiling. “Asshole. You’re sleeping on the couch for that.”

Matt laughs and finally slips his arms from her waist. He rubs at his chest, and makes a show of being hurt. “Serves me right.”

Heather giggles. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” she teases.

“Believe me,” Matt says, with a laugh, “I have.”

-

Matt’s sitting on the couch later in the evening, watching a rerun of _I Love Lucy_ and working on a beer, when Haren pads down the hall and pokes his head into the family room.

“Hey.”

Matt looks up and gives him a slight nod. “Hey. Can’t sleep?”

“Not really tired. Mind if I join you?” Haren holds onto the door frame and ticks his fingernails in the wood.

Matt shrugs and takes a sip of his beer. “Sure. Wouldn’t mind the company.”

Haren joins him on the couch and pulls his knees up to his chest. “Did I make a good impression with your wife?” he asks, reaching over and plucking the beer from Matt’s hand. He tips his head back and takes a long pull.

Matt slips an arm behind his shoulders. “I think she’s glad to have someone else in this house besides me,” he says.

“You think she’s sick of you?” Haren asks, sticking the beer back in Matt’s hand.

“All her friends live in Chicago,” Matt says, dropping his arm. “She’s friendly with some of the wives and girlfriends, I guess. But it’s not the same.”

“Ah. I see,” Haren says. He leans a little into Matt’s shoulder. “You ever think about her when we’re doing it?”

Matt chokes on a mouthful of beer and spits it down the front of his t-shirt. “ _What_?” He wipes his mouth on the shoulder of his t-shirt.

Haren sighs and looks over at him. “Do you ever - I dunno, feel bad about this?”

Matt makes a face in the direction of the TV. “I love my wife.”

Haren nods slowly. “And I love my girlfriend.”

“All right then.” Matt studies a singular bead of condensation trickling down the neck of his beer bottle. “Glad we got all that outta the way.”

“So, you don’t feel bad that you’re fucking around on her?” Haren presses.

“It’s - it’s different with you’n me,” Matt sighs, reaching out and knotting his fingers loosely in Haren’s hair. “It’s - I don’t know. I think I’d feel worse about it if I was fucking around on her with another woman.”

Haren shakes Matt’s hand out of his hair. “ ’Cause you might leave her for another woman, but not another man?” he asks, sounding vaguely, distantly amused.

“No, it’s - fuck, I don’t know.” Matt takes an angry chug of beer and swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “What about you’n Jessica, huh? You can’t say you’d leave her for me.”

“Right,” Haren says.

“So why the game of Twenty Questions?” Matt asks, rankled. He feels too warm all of a sudden, itchy and ill-fitting in his own skin. He rubs absently at the L-shaped scar on his right elbow.

“I guess I just wanted to see where we stand, with each other. Is that so wrong?” he asks.

Matt looks over at him. “No, ’course not,” he says, feeling just the slightest bit guilty _now_. “ ’m sorry. I just don’t know.”

“Neither do I,” Haren sighs. He shifts closer, and knocks his knee into Matt’s. Haren slips a hand under Matt’s t-shirt and over his chest. “I’m gonna say something pretty stupid here in a minute, so promise not to laugh at me.”

“I promise nothing,” Matt says, resting a hand lightly over Haren’s on his chest, under his t-shirt.

Haren stills his hand. “I - ” He falters, losing his nerve. “I just wanted to thank you.”

“For what?” Matt asks.

“Letting me stay with you and your wife. ’s real nice of you.”

Matt smiles. “I didn’t exactly do it for purely altruistic reasons, you know,” he says, looking over, locking eyes with Haren.

Haren smiles. “I kinda figured,” he says, slipping a hand over his cheek and kissing him.

-

The team shuts Haren down for the season in the middle of September, in the middle of a tight, three-team pennant race. Haren tries to talk his way back into the rotation, begs and wheedles and pleads, but La Russa and Duncan refuse to reconsider. They don’t want to abuse his arm, La Russa tells him. They’re erring on the side of caution.

Matt’s heard this same song-and-dance before, and when Haren stomps out of La Russa’s office, a dark look in his eyes, Matt corrals him with an arm around the shoulders.

Matt gives him a gentle tug in the direction of his locker. “Hey, Danny, you wanna go out for drinks?”

“They’re shutting me down for the season. There’s nothing fucking _wrong_ with me,” Haren growls, as if Matt hasn’t even spoken.

Matt gives him a shake. “Hey. They’re only doing it for your own good,” he says.

Haren slips out from under Matt’s arm and heads for his locker. He rips off his baseball cap and slams it on the top shelf. “I should be out there pitching,” he snaps, tearing his hands through his hair. 

“You’ve already thrown a ton of innings,” Matt reminds him, loping over. “They’re just trying to protect your arm for next season.”

“Fuck next season, man! We’re in a _pennant_ race. We still got a shot,” Haren says, glaring at Matt, his bright blue eyes snapping off a kind of intense energy Matt hasn’t seen before.

“Tony and Dunc wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t in your best interests. Just calm down and try to think about it rationally, okay, kid?” Matt touches Haren between his shoulder blades, lightly.

Haren sighs and thumps a fist on the shelf in his locker. “I wanna be a part of this,” he says.

“You are,” Matt says.

“I mean, the pennant race. Going to the playoffs. I wanna be a part of all that,” Haren says, wriggling out from under Matt’s hand. He turns and leans back against his locker, folding his arms across his chest. “How’d _you_ deal with bein’ shut down?”

Matt shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest. “I reacted about as well as you did,” Matt says, “but I got it, eventually. I got why they did it.”

Haren sighs unhappily. “So, you’re basically just saying ‘put up or shut up,’ right?”

“That’s really all you can do, kid,” Matt says, chucking him on the shoulder.

Haren shakes his head. “Feels like giving up.”

“It’s not. It’s knowing when to give in,” Matt says, putting a hand over Haren’s chest. “Sometimes you can’t win them all.”

“That’s just now how I am,” Haren says, letting Matt leave his hand on his chest.

“I know. Neither ’m I. But I had to do it. I had to learn to suck it up and deal sometimes.” Matt fights the urge to just slip his hand around the back of Haren’s neck and pull him in for a kiss. Instead, he drops his hand and kicks his heel at the floor.

Haren sighs. “Hate this, man. I feel fucking useless if I’m not pitching,” he says, reaching up and knocking Matt’s hand away from his chest.

Matt slips his hands into the pockets of his uniform pants for lack of anything else to do with them. “I know.” He pauses, eyes Haren. “You wanna go blow off some steam? Get wasted or something?”

Haren wrinkles his nose. “That’s your suggestion for everything,” he says. “Don’t you do anything else?”

“Sometimes I like to eat,” Matt says, evenly.

Haren laughs and shakes his head, a wet stripe of hair flopping into his eyes. “You’re such a dork. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Only all the time.” Matt smiles, pleased at getting one out of Haren. He pulls clothes out of his locker and starts to change. “If you don’t wanna go and get wasted we can go, oh, I dunno, apple picking or something instead.”

“Apple picking?” Haren raises his eyebrows.

“You didn’t like my other idea.”

“Think up something less lame than apple picking and I might say yes,” Haren says. He glances around quickly before leaning in and giving Matt an affectionate squeeze.

Matt closes his eyes and slides a hand up between Haren’s shoulder blades, leaves it there until Haren pulls away.

“Okay,” Matt says, slipping off his jersey and tugging a t-shirt on over his head. “I got something we can do.”

“Does it involve being naked?” Haren asks.

“Sure, if you wanna get your ass banned for life from the Saint Louis Art Museum,” Matt says, flattening the t-shirt over his chest.

Haren looks over, drags a brush through his damp hair. “Art museum? I thought I said something _less_ lame than apple picking.”

Matt kicks off his pants and sliders and tosses them in his locker. “C’mon, you even been to a museum before?” Haren shrugs and shakes his head. “Then how d’you know if it’ll be lame?”

“ ’Cause I just know these things,” Haren says, working his fingers up a row of tiny white buttons on his shirt.

“You can’t know until you’ve tried it.” Matt slips on his jeans and buttons them. “Come with me?”

Haren sighs, and Matt thinks he sees the beginnings of a smile at the corners of Haren’s mouth. “Fine. But you’re buying me a souvenir at the gift shop when this is all over with.”

-

“This is lame.”

Matt glances over at Haren, and then back at the art exhibit he’d been examining before Haren had interrupted him. “ _You’re_ lame,” Matt retorts, tucking his rolled-up museum pamphlet in the back pocket of Haren’s jeans.

Haren squirms away. “It’s just a bunch of ribbons stapled to a wall. How is that art?” Haren asks, flicking his finger at one of the ribbons.

The exhibit appears to be what Haren thinks it is - thousands of colored ribbons stapled to a wall.

“It’s abstract,” Matt scolds. The ribbons cover the entire expanse of the wall, from top to bottom, and they have phrases printed on them in a language Matt can’t read. “You got any idea what they say?”

Haren picks up one of the ribbons and squints. “It looks like Portuguese,” he says, letting it drop from his hand. He shrugs. “I dunno Portuguese.”

Matt steps back and crosses his arms over his chest. “ ’s kinda cool, I guess,” he says.

“You think it’s lame too! Just admit it,” Haren crows victoriously.

“I do not.” Matt glares at him.

“Dude, it’s nothing but a bunch of ribbons stapled to a wall. How could you _not_ think it was lame?” Haren asks.

“Just shut up and enjoy the art,” Matt says. He glances around before dropping his arm across Haren’s shoulder.

Haren turns his head slightly, and Matt can see him glancing at him out of the corner of his eyes. “What happened to ‘personal boundaries,’ huh?” Haren asks, but he doesn’t move out from under Matt’s arm.

“Nobody’s recognized us yet. Plus, we’ve got our disguises.” Matt touches his index finger to the bill of the Chicago Cubs cap he had lifted from Heather’s side of the closet that afternoon.

Haren tugs his own baseball cap down over his eyes, just to be sure. “Baseball caps on baseball players? Not exactly the most creative of disguises,” he says.

“Nah, but who’d expect to run into a couple ballplayers in a museum, anyway?” Matt asks.

Haren chuckles lightly, and Matt can feel it. “Point.”

Matt glances back at the ribbons. “Maybe you’re right, maybe they _are_ kind of lame.”

Haren snorts. “Oh, you’re agreeing with me now. You angling for something?”

Matt smiles a little and tugs Haren into his side. “Hey, I’m not that kinda guy.”

Haren rests a hand on Matt’s stomach, steadying himself. “If you agree to leave with me now, I’ll make it up to you in your truck,” Haren says.

Matt looks over at him and grins. “Well. Maybe I _am_ that kinda guy.”

Haren grins back. “Thought so.”

-

The season officially ends October 28, but _their_ season technically ends at the hands of the Houston Astros two weeks earlier, in a sweep. After the humiliating showing in Houston, the Cardinals go 9-4 down the stretch and even then, it’s not enough. Houston and Chicago had built too much of a lead, and the Cardinals can’t recover.

They close their season out with a victory, but it doesn’t mean much. It feels hollow. The Busch Stadium crowd seems subdued, disappointed they’re not seeing the team off to the postseason for the fourth year in a row.

In the clubhouse, after the game, the mood isn’t much different.

Matt tools around in front of his locker, not quite ready to hang the spikes up until February. Most of the other guys are already packed up, and are just standing around together, chatting. It feels like nobody else is quite ready to leave, either.

Matt turns back to his locker and starts peeling photographs off the walls and picking the tape off the backs. 

Something falls to the ground with a loud crash and Matt raises his head. Haren is sheepishly picking the contents of his locker stall off the ground. Matt stops what he’s doing and heads over.

“Need some help?” Matt gets on his knees and begins picking up Haren’s things anyway. He drops an economical sized tube of shampoo into Haren’s box. “Where you headed for the offseason?”

Haren picks up a pair of sunglasses and one of the lenses falls out. “Back home to L.A., probably,” he says, dropping the sunglasses and the lens in the box. “What about you?”

“Jupiter,” he says, reaching for a scuffed baseball just as Haren does. Their fingers graze and Haren pulls his hand back. 

“Jupiter?” Haren glances at Matt, raising his eyebrows. “I always knew you were from outer space . . .”

“Jupiter, _Florida_ , dumbass,” Matt says, tossing the ball into Haren’s box.

“Oh, right.” Haren sits back on his haunches and braces himself with a hand to the carpet. “Am I, uh, am I gonna see you at all?”

Matt snaps his head up from a beheaded bobblehead of Haren’s so fast, he gives himself whiplash. “You mean - what do you mean?”

Haren shakes his head and takes the bobblehead from Matt. A spring sticks out from its neck hole and Haren plucks at it. “I mean, like, does this - this thing just kinda end because it’s the offseason now?”

Matt rests his hands on his thighs, wishing Haren hadn’t taken the bobblehead. His could have used the distraction. “I dunno,” he says. “I usually spend most of my time with Heather in Florida. And we spend a month in Montana before we - ”

“Wait, _Montana_ ,” Haren asks, his question momentarily forgotten.

“I own a farm on a big piece of land up there,” Matt explains, waving a hand vaguely through the air to indicate _up there_. “Heather owns a horse.”

“Oh,” Haren says, scrunching his brow. “Montana. Huh.” He flops down on the carpet with a _thump_. Haren flings an arm over his face. “Guess there’s a lot I don’t know about you.”

“I could say the same,” Matt says, picking up a sneaker and tossing it into the box. “Tell me something about you that you wouldn’t want me to know.”

“Something I _wouldn’t_ want you to know?” Haren lifts his arm and tucks it under his head as a pillow. “Jeez. That’s not fair, man.”

“You can turn the tables on me when you’re done,” Matt promises, picking up a crumpled photograph. He flattens it out and examines it. It’s the dugout shot of Haren and his blonde, Jessica. Matt drops it in the box too.

Haren sits up. “Ugh, okay. But if you tell any of the guys, I swear to God I’ll end you,” Haren says.

“Scout’s honor.” Matt crosses an ‘X’ over his chest.

“All right. I got my first kiss from my sister,” Haren grumbles.

“What?” Matt blinks at him. “Your _sister_?”

“I was ten! There was a girl in school I really liked, and I went to Steph - my sister - and asked her if she’d show me how to kiss a girl. Like, for real, none of that cheek-kissing crap.” Haren’s cheeks start to pink ever so slightly, and Matt files the moment away in his mental Rolodex. It’s the first time he’s ever seen Haren blush. “Steph gave me a kiss and told me if I told anyone she did that, she’d kill me.”

“That’s sweet,” Matt says, laughing. 

“Your turn.” 

Matt picks up a bottle of pills and turns it in his hand. It’s nothing but vitamins. He tosses it into the box just to hear the rattle. “Whaddaya wanna know?” he asks, buying time.

“It doesn’t matter. Just tell me something you wouldn’t tell anyone else,” Haren whines, leaning over and whacking him lightly on the ankle with a fist.

Matt kicks his hand away. “All right, fine.” He focuses on a point just beyond Haren’s shoulder. “Okay, how ’bout this. I still blame myself for D.K.’s death.”

Haren furrows his brow and gives Matt a puzzled look. “What - _why_?”

Matt shrugs. “I invited him out for drinks the night he - he died, and he turned me down. He wasn’t feeling well, he said.” Matt shrugs again and starts picking at the carpeting. “He hadn’t really been feeling well for a while. Maybe if I’d just tried harder . . .” He trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“That _wasn’t_ your fault,” Haren says. He sounds injured, like someone’s just punched the air out of his lungs.

“I know. Still blame myself, though,” Matt says, laughing a little, sweeping a hand through his hair. “Everyone feels like they could have done something different.”

Haren shuffles closer, through the detritus of his locker, to Matt. “Matt - ”

“It’s okay, Danny, I know it isn’t really my fault - ” Matt starts, but Haren shuts him up with a _look_.

“You’ve honestly never told anyone about this?” Haren asks, slipping his hands over Matt’s shoulders, squeezing briefly.

“Nah. It - it didn’t feel right,” Matt says.

Haren lets go of him. “Thanks for telling me,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” Matt says. He pushes himself to his feet.

Haren catches onto his hand. “Hey, Matt?”

“Yeah?”

Haren pulls himself up, keeps hold of Matt’s hand for a few seconds before letting go. “Maybe we can get together during the offseason or something,” he says, “hang out, maybe.”

Matt smiles. “I’d like that.” 

Haren breaks into a smile of his own. “Good. See you around, then.”

“See you, Danny.” Matt goes to his locker, picks up his cardboard box and leaves.

-

They don’t see each other again until the following February, when pitchers and catchers report to Jupiter for Spring Training. They’d made plans to meet up in Los Angeles during the winter, but Matt could never come up with a decent enough excuse to leave Heather behind in Jupiter, and, later, Missoula. 

There are new faces in camp this spring, and some familiar ones are missing. Tomko and Hermanson end up signing with the Giants, and Yan goes to Detroit, and Cairo goes to the Yankees, and Stephenson and Journell both retire, that 2003 team scattered to the four winds.

One of these new faces, the guy they signed away from Toronto, Chris Carpenter, decides Matt is his new best friend and starts hovering early on. Kind of reminds him of Haren in a way.

Carpenter is long and lanky, and dark-haired and blue-eyed too, although Matt can’t imagine doing anything with him. Carpenter’s also been with the same girl since high school and brags constantly about their infant son, which just seals the deal. The first day they meet, Carpenter pulls out his wallet and starts flipping through the pictures, detailing all the cute things his son can do and he’s not even two, can you believe _that_?

“No _way_ ,” Matt says, pretending to sound impressed. He and Carpenter are stretching side by side in the grass, and Carpenter has been rattling on - for the last ten minutes, but it really seems like an hour - about what his son Sam did that morning, hands flying animatedly.

“Alyson and I could hardly believe it ourselves! He’s not even two and he’s already stringing complete sentences together! Sure, they’re pretty simple, but still!” Carpenter leans back and plants his hands in the soft, fresh grass. “You got any kids, Matt?”

Matt thinks briefly about the son he supposedly has somewhere, the supposed son he’s never seen, and shrugs. “Illegitimate kid. One night stand,” he says, dryly, letting Carpenter assume he’s joking.

Carpenter laughs and kicks his feet in the grass like a kid. “It’s awesome, man. Best thing ever. I have to remind myself all the time that I - well, me’n my wife _made_ him.”

Matt nods along, and leans forward, grabbing onto the end of his crosstrainer with the tips of his fingers. The muscles in his back ache and creak from disuse, and the tendons and muscles in his bad shoulder twinge in sympathy. “Heather and I only wish we’re as lucky as you and Alyson when we finally start our own family,” Matt says, mostly for Carpenter’s benefit.

“Maybe if you and Heather have a girl, we can set her up with Sam,” Carpenter says, a big grin spreading across his face, his cheeks dimpling.

Matt laughs. “Hey, that’s my hypothetical child you’re talking about, man.”

Carpenter giggles. “Just teasin’, man.” He bends at his waist until he can touch his chin to his knees, and does a series of painful looking stretches.

“Hey, Matt!”

Matt and Carpenter both look up. Haren is sprinting across the grass to them, eyes obscured by a pair of big, gaudy Oakley shades, long, unkempt hair flagging behind him.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Matt gives Carpenter a pat on the back and pushes himself to his feet to greet Haren. He holds his hand out to the kid, but Haren surprises him by grabbing him up in a big, rib-crushing hug.

“Thought we were gonna get together, man!” Haren says, tousling Matt’s hair.

Matt squirms away and reaches up to fix his hair. “Couldn’t get away. You know how that is.” He glances down at Carpenter, who waves. “You met Carp, right?”

“Nah, I just got here. Dan Haren.” Haren steps forward and grabs Carpenter’s hand, giving it a sturdy shake. “How you liking it here so far?”

“ ’s nice,” Carpenter says. “Everyone’s been real cool.”

“Anything like Dunedin?” Haren asks, plopping in the grass next to Carpenter.

Matt settles down next to him and resumes his stretches.

“Well, Dunedin is still Florida,” Carpenter says, “but _atmosphere_ -wise, it’s totally different. The guys here, they think we can win it all. You don’t get that in Dunedin.”

Haren grins and nudges Matt in the side with his elbow. “Whaddaya think of ol’ Morris here?”

“Ol’ Morris?” Carpenter laughs, scratching at his chin, and glances over at Matt to gauge his mood.

Matt pushes Haren’s elbow away, rolling his eyes. “Haren thinks he’s a comic.”

Haren flops on his back and does snow angels in the grass. “It’s ’cause I am. You just don’t appreciate my sense of humor.”

“Boo hoo. Poor you.” Matt rolls his eyes again.

Carpenter smiles. “Hey, Dan, have I shown you pictures of my son yet?”

-

Matt, for some reason, is assigned a roommate for Spring Training. The team had mostly abandoned the roommate concept by 2002, but, inexplicably, they’ve decided to bring it back for the 2004 season.

When Matt gets to his room and checks the piece of paper taped on the door to see who his roommate is going to be, he half-expects it to be Haren, but it’s not. It’s Carpenter.

He’s not too disappointed, though. As talkative as he is, Carpenter seems like a pretty nice guy.

Carpenter is already unpacking his stuff when Matt steps in and shuts the door behind him.

“Hey, Matt. I took the bed by the window. Hope you don’t mind.” Carpenter picks up an armful of powder blue Polo shirts and carries them over to an open dresser drawer. He dumps them in rather unceremoniously and shuts the drawer.

“Nah, it’s fine.” Matt drops his bag on the bed by the wall and collapses next to it.

“You okay?” Carpenter shuffles in socked feet back to his bed.

“ ’m fine. Long day,” he says, closing his eyes.

“Haren came by a little earlier. He was looking for you,” Carpenter says.

“Oh?” Matt asks, trying not to sound terribly interested. He rolls onto his side and looks at Carpenter expectantly, motioning for him to continue.

“He wanted to know if you’n me wanted to go out with him and Izzy for drinks,” Carpenter says. “At a restaurant, not a bar.”

“Thanks, Carp.” Matt picks up his cell phone and fires off a quick message to Haren. When he’s done, he drops the phone on the night stand and glances over at Carpenter. 

Carpenter looks at him and shrugs, confused. “What?”

“Nothing,” Matt says. “Never mind.”

-

Matt is sprinting out by the warning track when someone runs up behind him and crashes solidly into his back. The two of them go flying head over heels, and Matt lands in a heap in the dirt.

“What the fuck.” Matt rolls onto his back and struggles to sit up.

“Hey.” It’s Isringhausen. It figures. Only Isringhausen would be dumb enough to do something like this.

“What d’you want, Jason?” Matt grumbles, slapping dirt off the front of his shirt.

“Haven’t seen you around lately,” Isringhausen says, making it sound like an accusation. He picks some pebbles out of his knees.

“Been busy,” Matt lies. He doesn’t really know why he lies just then, because he thinks Isringhausen can tell anyway.

“Bullshit,” Isringhausen says. “Me’n a bunch of the guys went out last night and you were nowhere to be found.”

“So? Maybe I didn’t wanna go out,” Matt says, pushing himself to his feet. He extends a hand to Isringhausen and he accepts, pulling himself up.

“C’mon, Matty, this is _you_ we’re talkin’ about here,” Isringhausen says. “Since when are you not up to goin’ out?”

Matt shrugs and turns, starts walking. The soles of his crosstrainers crunch in the dirt of the warning track. “I stayed in. Watched a movie. You’re acting like I robbed a bank or something.”

“Don’t be stupid. This just ain’t like you, Matty.” Isringhausen trails after him, kicking pebbles at the backs of Matt’s legs.

Matt turns and casts a hard glare at Isringhausen over his shoulder. “Maybe I don’t feel like going out with you guys anymore.”

Isringhausen offers Matt an injured look. “Too busy spending time with Haren?” he asks, spitting out Haren’s name like a curse.

Matt comes to a stop and slaps Isringhausen in the chest. “Dude, what’s your problem? Danny and I are friends.”

“Haren shows up at camp and suddenly you don’t have time for anybody else,” Isringhausen sneers, knocking Matt’s hand away.

Matt shakes his head and laughs, rubbing his hands over his face. “Jesus, Izzy. This isn’t high school, okay? Yeah, Haren and I are spending a lot of time together. He’s a good kid. He needs some direction. A mentor.”

Isringhausen barks out a loud, sharp, discordant laugh. “Give me a fuckin’ break, man. Out of everyone on the team, I think _you’re_ the one who needs the mentoring. Haren’s actually _got_ a good head on his shoulders, unlike some people.”

“Fuck you, Izzy.” Matt slaps him in the chest again, and Isringhausen stumbles back a few steps. 

Isringhausen quickly regains his footing and pushes back. “Hit a little too close for home?”

Matt gives him a hard shove. “Just shut the fuck up.”

“Get your shit together, man. You’re a fucking mess,” Isringhausen says, knocking Matt’s hands away. 

“You don’t know shit,” Matt snaps, turning away from him and heading in the opposite direction.

Isringhausen won’t let him get away that easily. “Dude, I _know_ you,” he says, grabbing onto Matt’s shoulder and pulling him back.

Matt pushes him away. “Not anymore.”

Isringhausen drops his hand, shrugs. “Fine. No sweat off my back,” he says.

Matt can tell he’s pissed, that he does care. He sighs and pulls his hands through his hair. “Sorry,” he says, knowing full well how lame it sounds. 

Isringhausen just waves at him dismissively and stalks off in the direction of a group of their teammates.

Matt sighs and tucks his arms across his chest, follows the white “44” on the back of Isringhausen’s red jersey until he can’t make it out anymore.

He starts jogging along the warning track again, savors the crunch of dirt under his feet and the warm beat of the sun against his back.

-

Haren doesn’t make the team out of Spring Training. 

He pitches okay, but La Russa is never looking for just _okay_. He wants _good_ , _solid_. Haren’s _okay_ isn’t good enough.

Matt sits with the kid in the clubhouse, while he packs up his things and prepares to head over to minor league camp. Haren’s humming an upbeat song Matt doesn’t recognize as he stuffs things into his nylon duffel bag.

“You okay?” Matt asks. He’s planted in front of his locker on his little wooden stool, flipping a Nerf ball from hand to hand.

Haren shrugs and pushes his hair out of his face. “Yeah. I’m fine,” he says, looking over. “What about you? How you gonna manage without me around to pick up after you?” He smirks.

Matt tosses the Nerf ball at him and beans him in the head. “I can handle myself,” he says.

“Of course you can,” Haren says. He bends down and picks up the Nerf ball. “You gonna hold down the fort for me?”

“ ’Course,” Matt says, standing and heading over to Haren’s locker. He takes the ball from him, bops Haren on the shoulder with it. “You’ll be back up here next thing you know. Probably because I put myself on the DL for some asinine reason, as usual.” Matt laughs awkwardly and Haren just shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

“You better keep your ass outta trouble so we can actually be on the team at the same time,” Haren says, reaching up and sweeping his shaggy brown hair out of his face. “I’ll call Carpenter and have him babysit your injury prone ass if I have to. You know I’ll do it too.”

Matt laughs again, slightly more genuine this time. “I do.”

Haren smiles and picks up his duffel, slings it over his shoulder. “Well. I’ll see you around, Matt.” He reaches out and pats Matt on the chest.

“Yeah,” he says, carding his fingers affectionately through Haren’s damp hair. “See you ’round, Danny.”

-

Matt’s at the cutting board, chopping up onions when Heather slips in behind him and puts her chin on his shoulder. He pauses to reach back, strokes her hair a few times.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“You - you look different,” she says.

Matt shrugs. “I don’t feel different.”

“I mean, you look - I don’t know,” she says, patting him on the side and slipping away to turn on the faucet. “You look lighter.”

Matt looks over at her and quirks an eyebrow. “Lighter?”

“Not, like, physically,” she says. Heather runs her hands under the warm water and takes the onions he’s chopped up, dumps them in the Teflon pot in the sink.

Matt smiles and looks back at the onions on the cutting board, wipes his watery eyes on his sleeve. “That’s a good thing, right?”

“Yeah,” she says.

They lock gazes. Heather smiles flicks water at him, and Matt laughs. He slips a hand under the stream of warm water and does the same. Heather ducks under his arm, squealing, and Matt twists, getting an arm around her.

Heather looks up at him, eyes smiling, and Matt realizes he can’t remember the last time she looked at him like this. He gets his other arm around her and squeezes.

Heather’s wet hands soak through the thin material of his t-shirt, but he doesn’t mind.

-

2004 is everything that 2003 wasn’t.

They start out slow in April, just like they did the previous season, but they work out the kinks by mid-June and by July, they’re clicking on all cylinders. They’re practically world beaters.

It’s also become pretty evident at this point that Haren won’t be coming up anytime soon. The organization seems convinced he needs more time starting games in Memphis than relieving them in St. Louis.

“It’s bullshit, is what it is,” Haren complains, when Matt calls him up after hearing the news that Haren’s been named to the Triple-A All-Star roster.

“What is?” Matt is standing over the kitchen sink, making an attempt at dinner while Heather is in the office, dealing with the players’ wives’ charity paperwork. Matt wedges the phone between his ear and shoulder and begins to chop up carrots.

“I’d rather be riding the bench in St. Louis than starting the Triple-A All-Star Game,” he huffs.

Matt laughs. “You sound like a kid,” he teases, scooping the carrots off to the side. He picks up a big, white onion and bounces it on his forearm like a baseball.

“I _am_ a kid, remember?” Haren snorts.

“What’s that make me, then? A pedophile?” Matt jokes, dropping the onion on the cutting board and peeling at the paper-thin skin.

Haren laughs. “I guess so.” He sighs deeply. “Wish I was up there, man.”

“You will be,” Matt promises, although he doesn’t really know. The team might actually decide to keep Haren stashed away in Memphis for the entire season. He doesn’t pretend to know what goes on in Jocketty’s office.

“Wish I was up there with you and, shit, man. I hate feeling jealous of you guys. You’re up there in St. Louis, and I’m not even gonna be a part of it. ’s worse than not even making it in ’03.”

Matt can hear what sounds like loud voices on Haren’s end. “Where _are_ you?” he asks, slicing the onion into small pieces and then into even _smaller_ pieces.

“Apartment,” Haren says. “Been renting a place with another one of the pitchers, Wainwright, and Jason Motte, one of the catchers. ’s all right. They’re good guys.”

“Are they killing each other or something?” Matt asks, with a slight laugh.

“They’re playing Halo on the Xbox,” Haren says.

“Halo?” Matt asks.

“It’s a video game,” Haren explains. “You shoot stuff. It’s pretty cool. Maybe if I - I mean, _when_ I get called up to St. Louis, I can show you how to play.”

Matt dumps the carrots and onions into his cooking pot and leans back against the kitchen counter. “Kids these days.”

“Hey, man,” Haren says, lowering his voice to a near-whisper. “You didn’t seem to mind before.”

“I’m just teasing you,” he says, wiping his damp hand off on his jeans. “Maybe I can come out for the All-Star Break, for a visit.”

“That’d be nice,” Haren says. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” Matt says, turning to rinse his hands under the faucet. “Where’s the game this year?”

“Pawtucket. Can’t wait, man,” Haren says, giddy.

“Me either.” Matt dries his hands off on a towel. “I miss you.”

“You too, Matty,” Haren says. “I gotta go. I’ll see you then.”

“See ya.” Matt smiles to himself and hangs the phone up.

“Who are you going to see?” 

Matt whirls around at the sound of Heather’s voice. Heather stands in the doorway, arms tucked across her chest, her eyes flinty and suspicious.

“Oh, I was just gonna go visit Haren for a couple days,” Matt says, with a slight smile. “He made the All-Star roster. Invited me out to celebrate with him.”

Heather nods slowly, her mouth tightening. “I’m sure he did,” she says, pushing past him to the kitchen sink. She picks up the cooking pot and carries it over to the stovetop.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Matt asks.

“Whatever you think it means,” she says, setting the pot down with a heavy, metallic clang.

“That doesn’t answer anything,” Matt says.

Heather fiddles with the plastic dials, turns on the front burner with a hiss and a click. “Don’t play dumb, Matt. It’s unbecoming.”

Matt groans and rubs his hands over his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He grumbles under his breath, “Like usual,” and Heather spins around on him.

“I’m sick and tired of this,” she says quietly, disturbingly calm and collected. “I’m tired of dancing around all this shit because you like to pretend I don’t know.”

“ _What_ shit, Heather?” Matt asks, reaching for her, but she pushes his hands away.

“I look at you and I don’t even know who you are anymore,” she says.

“You _know_ who I am,” Matt insists.

“Not anymore. Before, you’d talk to me. You trusted me. And now - now, you go to Jason and _Haren_ before you come to me.” Heather presses her hands to her face and takes a deep breath. “I know it hasn’t always been easy for you, but I think you need to see someone - ”

“Heather, don’t start that again,” Matt says, getting close enough to Heather to touch her shoulder. “I’m _fine_.”

She shrugs his hand away. “Don’t tell me you’re fine. I know you’re not. You wouldn’t be hiding medication from me if you were fine.”

Matt grows cold through and through, washed over with something pure and cool. His heart starts thudding and he can feel it reverberate. “What?”

“I found the pills in your sock drawer while I was doing your laundry a couple days ago,” she says.

“I need those, Heather. You _know_ \- ”

She cuts him off. “I don’t care anymore.” Heather reaches into her pockets and pulls out a couple bottles of prescription painkillers. She shoves them into his hands. “Take them. Take them all.”

Matt looks down at the labels. _OxyContin_. _Percodan_. He slips them into his pants pockets. “I’m going to see Haren,” he says, “and when I get back, we’ll talk about this.”

Heather laughs, short and sharp. “Of course you’re going to see Haren,” she says.

Matt looks at her, searches for any traces of _knowing_ in her eyes. “He’s my friend.”

“I know that,” she says, tone going dull and flat, eyes flickering out. “He’s apparently the only one you talk to besides Jason. And, according to Lorrie, you don’t even talk to Jason anymore.”

“At least I’m talking to _somebody_ ,” Matt mutters.

“It’s not the same thing. And I don’t think you’d be - ” Heather cuts herself off short, shakes her head and smiles to herself. She looks up and meets Matt’s eyes. “We’ll talk when you get back from Pawtucket.”

“Okay,” Matt says, on a long exhale. 

This should feel like a victory, but it only feels like he’s managed not to lose.

-

Haren’s waiting for him in the hotel lobby when he gets in, a big, dopey grin on his face. 

He looks different, in a very small way that Matt can’t quite place. His hair’s a little longer and he’s a little thinner, but it’s not that. 

“Hey! You made it.” Haren’s at his side in a flash, and he wraps Matt up in a big, friendly hug. “I wasn’t sure.”

“Said I’d come out,” Matt says, tousling Haren’s hair.

Haren laughs and pulls away, reaches up to fix his hair. “You wanna go up to my room? I brought the Xbox with me.”

Matt laughs. “You actually wanna play video games?”

“Well, I’m sure we could figure out something else we could do,” Haren says, smirking. He gives Matt a light, friendly punch in the side.

“I’m sure we will,” Matt says, and follows Haren to the elevators.

-

Haren’s in bed sleeping, covers pulled all the way over his head, when Matt slips out and begins to gather his haphazardly strewn clothes. He pulls his shirt on over his head and steps into his jeans, and steals a glance Haren’s way. The heap of bedspread shifts, and Haren’s arm flops out from under the covers.

Matt sneaks over to the bed and gets a pen and a pad of paper out of the night stand. He can see a few tufts of Haren’s hair sticking out from under the bedspread and he reaches out to tuck it down.

Haren stirs a little in his sleep, and waves ineffectually at Matt’s hand.

Matt smiles to himself and starts writing.

>   
>  _Danny -_  
> 

>   
>  _Went home to St.L. Will be holding down the fort till you get back._  
> 

>   
>  _~~Lo~~ See you soon,  
>  Matt_  
> 

-

By August, the Cardinals have pretty much clinched a spot in the postseason. They march steadily toward 100 victories and a Central Division title. St. Louis in the National League Divisional Series is an inevitability; the only question is who they’ll play in the first round.

And then September happens. 

September is the kind of thing that happens when you think you’ve got everything sewn up. It’s the kind of thing that comes around to knock you down a couple rungs.

Carpenter gets hurt. At first, La Russa and Weinberg are kind of worried this latest injury is somehow related to the torn labrum that kept Carpenter from pitching at all in the ’03 season. But they’re wrong, it’s something different, and maybe even something worse.

Carpenter has nerve damage in his elbow that shuts him down for the rest of the season - as well as the postseason - and will require surgery. He can’t even feel his own hand, let alone hold a baseball. Matt asks him what it’s like one day, while they’re both getting treatments on their arms in the medical room, and Carpenter gives him a very serious look. It’s not a look Matt’s accustomed to seeing on the usually happy-go-lucky Carpenter’s face.

“It’s like - it’s like a phantom limb that’s still attached,” Carpenter says brow scrunching. He examines his right hand and opens his fingers. “It’s like it’s not even a part of me anymore. Scariest thing ever, man.”

Matt nods along and glances at his own arm, soaking in a metal tub. “The surgery’ll fix it though, right?”

“There’s a chance that I might never get feeling back in my arm,” Carpenter says, closing his fingers. “The surgery’s so _precise_ , that the tiniest mistake could leave my arm . . .” Carpenter can’t finish the sentence. 

Matt cuts his eyes away from Carpenter and swallows convulsively. The thought of losing feeling in his hand terrifies him. “I’m sorry, man.”

“So’m I,” Carpenter sighs. “Crossing my fingers, though. If it goes as planned, I should be ready for Spring Training.”

“Sucks,” Matt says, shaking his head. “You ever wonder if you were cursed in a past life, or something?”

Carpenter laughs. “No, why?”

“ ’s just, you’ve gone through so much shit already. The shit in Toronto, and then the shoulder surgery last year, and now this,” Matt says, gesturing across his body to Carpenter with his left hand. 

“I don’t really believe in that superstitious stuff,” Carpenter says, with a slight, one-shouldered shrug. “I believe in baseball.”

Matt feels the corner of his mouth tick up at that. “I believe in baseball,” he echoes.

“It’s everything that’s right, Matty,” Carpenter says, sounding almost in _awe_.

“What do you mean by that?” Matt looks over at him.

Carpenter smiles almost bashfully and ticks the fingernails of his left hand on the trainer’s table. “I mean, I don’t know about you, but baseball is - it’s how I get away from all the bad shit. Even the injuries. As long as I have a ball in my hand and clear skies overhead, I feel like everything’s gonna be all right, you know?”

Matt glances down. “Even with all the injuries? If it weren’t for baseball, you wouldn’t be looking at another surgery.”

“I’ll _take_ all the injuries. Just give me a ball and a field,” Carpenter says, his voice gentle, and yet firm and unyielding.

Matt lifts his arm and picks up a towel, wraps it around his elbow and pats himself dry. He drops the towel when he’s done and rolls down the sleeve of his shirt. “Wish I was more like you,” Matt says, buttoning his cuff.

“You don’t mean that,” he laughs.

Matt looks over at Carpenter in surprise, eyebrows shooting up. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just, we’re two completely different people. Maybe the life you have is the life you were meant to have,” Carpenter says. “It’s not always greener on the other side of the fence.”

Matt slips away the trainer’s table and tips the brim of an invisible ballcap to Carpenter. “See you ’round, Carp.”

“You too,” Carpenter says, giving him a wave. “Hey, Matt?”

“Yeah?” Matt pauses in the doorway.

“Don’t let it bring you down, man. Whatever it is,” Carpenter says.

“I won’t.” Matt knocks his fist against the door frame and heads out.

-

They call Haren up to take Carpenter’s spot on the team. The kid slots right into Carpenter’s spot on the postseason roster, too.

Matt feels torn. He can’t help but be a little disappointed on Carpenter’s behalf, and yet, at the same time, he’s excited for Haren.

Carpenter haunts the clubhouse in his Cardinal-red pullover, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side. Carpenter makes the rounds as the news of his surgery starts circulating in the clubhouse, shaking hands - left-handed of course - and commiserating. 

He finally makes it over to Matt’s locker and they greet each other with an awkward, one-armed hug.

“How you holdin’ up?” Matt asks, stepping back and bumping his fist against Carpenter’s.

“I’m all right,” Carpenter says, smiling. His blue eyes are serene and calm, his smile is placid, and Matt has no reason to doubt that Carpenter means it. “Just how it goes sometimes. At least I’ll get to spend more time with my son.” 

Matt shakes his head. “Can’t believe you’re so _cool_ about everything. If it were me, I’d be whining to anyone who’d care to listen.”

Carpenter laughs. “I did some whining to my wife, but I got over it pretty quickly,” he admits with a grin.

Matt shoves his hands into his pockets and glances toward the clubhouse door - Haren is expected to arrive any minute. “You’re still gonna stick around for the playoffs, right?”

“ ’Course,” Carpenter says. “My first postseason appearance, man. Wouldn’t miss it for almost anything.”

“Good,” Matt says. 

The clubhouse doors open and Haren walks in, lugging a duffel bag of gear over his shoulder. Guys immediately start flocking to him and Haren chats excitedly about what he’s been up to since he was last with the club, earlier that summer, and Matt can’t help but laugh a little.

“What?” Carpenter asks.

“Nothin’,” Matt says.

“Hey, Matt! Carp!” Haren drops his bag and heads over to Matt and Carpenter. “How’s the arm?”

“It’s been better,” Carpenter says. “What’ve you been up to?”

“You know,” Haren says, grinning, flicking his gaze over to Matt. “Getting into trouble, charming my way out of it. The usual.”

“How’s Jessica?” Carpenter asks.

The smile freeze on Haren’s face for just a split second before widening, but Matt doesn’t miss it. “Jessica’s great. She’s coming out to stay with me for a little while, actually. You should meet her,” he says, nodding to both Matt and Carpenter. “I bet she and Heather and Alyson would really hit it off.”

“Oh no,” Carpenter says. “They’ll be conspiring against us in no time.”

Matt snorts. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Carpenter gives him an odd look before glancing back at Haren. “I gotta get going. See you guys around?”

“Of course,” Matt says, giving Carpenter a pat on the shoulder. “Hang in there, man.”

“See ya ’round, Carp.” Haren does the same.

Carpenter tips the brim of his cap to them and exits the clubhouse. Matt finally looks over at Haren, really sees him for the first time. He looks tan and wind-swept, hair all over the place, and _happy_. His bright blue eyes are like cut glass.

“What’re you so smiley about?” Matt asks.

Haren laughs. “Being back with the big club, man. What else?”

“Nothin’,” Matt says. Haren’s smile is contagious, and he can feel his own mouth twitch into a slight smile.

-

They make relatively short work of the Dodgers, taking them in four. The other divisional series goes the full five games, and Houston emerges victorious. 

They’ll be meeting the Astros in the National League Championships for the right to play in the World Series.

Woody Williams gets what would have been Carpenter’s start, atop the rotation, and will open the series. Haren is stashed in the bullpen still and making La Russa look like a genius for putting him on the postseason roster to begin with.

“Still’d rather be starting,” Haren says.

He and Matt are lounging on the cushy leather clubhouse couch. Matt’s doing a crossword puzzle and Haren is playing with a Game Boy, bare feet propped up on a little wooden foot stool.

“Hm?” Matt asks, lowering his crossword and looking over.

“I’d still rather be starting,” Haren says, biting down lightly on his bottom lip, thumbs flying.

“Who wouldn’t?” Matt asks, returning his attention to his crossword puzzle.

“Relievers, closers,” Haren replies.

“Besides them.” Matt scribbles out a wrong answer and pencils the right one in.

“Least I’m a part of it,” Haren says to the Game Boy. “As opposed to Carp. That must suck.”

“He’s doing better than most would, in his situation,” Matt says.

“I guess. But he’s such a Pollyanna about things. Doesn’t surprise me one bit.” Haren raises his head and nudges Matt in the side with his elbow. “I hear Carp doesn’t even cheat on the road. He’s, like, the perfect man.”

Matt snorts. “I’m sure Carp’s got his flaws, just like everyone else.”

“I guess.” Haren tosses the Game Boy on the card table in front of them.

“Lose again?” Matt asks.

“Yeah.” Haren reclines and folds his arms under his head. “So, Jessica was wondering if you and Heather wanted to come out with us for dinner tomorrow, before the game.” He looks over at Matt and raises his eyebrows in question.

“Wouldn’t that be kind of - kind of _awkward_?” Matt asks.

“What’s there to be awkward about? She doesn’t know,” Haren says, reaching down and sliding a hand over Matt’s thigh with a salacious smirk.

“I think Heather does, though,” Matt says.

Haren sits upright. “Did you tell her?”

“No! I think she just put two and two together or something when I went to see you in Pawtucket,” Matt says.

Haren pulls his hand away to scratch thoughtfully at his chin. “Seems like kind of a big jump to make,” Haren says, sounding distant, pensive.

Matt shrugs helplessly. “She’s a smart woman.”

Haren shakes his head, hair flopping in his face. He pushes it off his forehead. “You’re pretty sure she knows?”

“At the very least, she suspects something,” Matt says.

Haren looks over at him. “What if she’s not the only one?”

“Nobody else could possibly - ”

“Heather’s tight with Izzy’s wife. She could’ve told Lorrie her suspicions or something,” Haren says.

Matt sits back. “Jason would’ve said something to me.”

“You guys’ve barely said one word to each other since Spring Training,” Haren points out.

“Fuck.” Matt drags his hands through his hair. “Now what?”

“We have to be careful,” Haren says.

Matt folds up his crossword puzzle and tosses it next to the Game Boy on the card table. “More careful than we’ve been?”

He feels Haren shrug his shoulders beside him. “I guess.”

Matt looks over at Haren. He reaches out and wraps his fingers loosely around Haren’s hand. His palm is cool and clammy. “It’s gonna be fine,” Matt says. “We’ll figure something out.”

Haren cuts a side glance Matt’s way. “Yeah,” he says. He tightens his fingers briefly around Matt’s.

Matt looks blindly at the TV in front of them, which is showing highlights from the Braves’ and Astros’ Divisional Series, not seeing anything but the writing on the wall.

-

The four of them end up getting together for dinner anyway. Jessica is friendly and chatty, and apparently plans on quitting her job once she and Haren marry so that she can travel with him on roadtrips, and basically just spend all her time with him.

Matt sneaks a glance Haren’s way while Jessica prattles on about her post-marriage roadtrip plans, wonders what he thinks about all of this. Haren’s face doesn’t betray his emotions though, his expression placid and calm.

“We want at least two children,” Jessica says to Heather. “What about you and Matt? Are you planning on starting a family?”

Heather reaches down and begins to fiddle with her silverware. “Eventually,” she says. “We’re not in any hurry. Are we, Matt?”

Matt nods along. “Nah. We’re just enjoying being married,” he says. He doesn’t miss the _look_ Heather shoots him before hiding her face behind her glass of champagne.

“That’s so wonderful,” Jessica says, turning to Haren and covering his hand with both of hers. “I can’t wait.”

Haren indulges her with a smile and rubs his thumb over the back of her hand. “Me either, hon.”

“When do you two think you’ll settle down and tie the knot?” Matt asks, stirring the straw in his Jack and Coke idly.

Haren glances at his and Jessica’s hands. “I dunno. Can’t imagine settling down.”

“ _Danny_ ,” Jessica scolds. “You can't imagine _ever_ settling down?”

“Oh, sure, at some point. But, c’mon, Jessica. I just turned twenty-four. You just turned twenty-two. You really wanna tie yourself down to one person at twenty-two?” Haren asks her. 

Jessica shrugs. “If you know you’ve found the person you want to be with for the rest of your life, why not?”

Matt studies his Jack and Coke. “Always side with the woman,” he says.

Haren glances at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Matt says.

Heather crosses her arms over her chest. “Maybe you should take your own advice some time,” she says, with a slight, humorless laugh.

Jessica smiles uncomfortably, the corners of her mouth pinched. “So, Heather, I want to hear more about this Cardinals’ wives’ cookbook.”

Matt stands and pushes himself away from the table. “I’ll be right back, ladies. And Danny.” He turns and heads for the front of the restaurant. He can hear the legs of a chair scraping, as someone gets up to follow after him. He doesn’t turn to see who it is.

“Hey, wait up.” Haren closes his hand on Matt’s elbow and Matt reaches out, pulls him along.

He pushes through the double doors, Haren close behind, and the warm, fresh air is like a welcome slap in the face.

“I didn’t think it’d be this awkward,” Haren says, once they’re outside.

Matt leans back against the brick wall and closes his eyes. “ ’s fine,” he says.

“Look, I can ask her to cool it with all the - ” Haren begins, but Matt cuts him short.

“It’s okay, Danny. You don’t have to tell her anything,” Matt says, opening his eyes and looking over at him. The wind tangles in Haren’s hair and Matt wants to reach out and fix it for him, but he shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants instead. “She’s fine.”

Haren nods and settles next to Matt against the wall. “So, what now?”

“I don’t know,” Matt says. He scuffs his foot on the concrete. 

Haren leans slightly into Matt’s shoulder. “What do you want?”

“What do you mean?” Matt asks, getting his arm behind Haren’s shoulders.

“I - I don’t know,” Haren stammers. 

“What do _you_ want?” Matt asks, turning it around on him.

“I wanna beat Houston,” Haren says. “And I want - I want this. I want you.”

Matt turns his head slightly, until he can see Haren out of the corner of his eye. “We’ll figure something - ”

“I don’t know if we can,” Haren interrupts.

Matt has nothing to add to that. He just tightens his arm around Haren’s shoulders instead.

-

Isringhausen fires the ball to home and Matt leans over the railing, a prayer on his breath. Haren is beside him, his hands clasped and his eyes closed, lips moving. It feels like time has slowed to a glacial pace.

 _Please_ , Matt thinks, holding onto the padded dugout railing, _please_.

Fans in the stands swirl red and white towels over their heads. The stadium noise grows to a dull roar. Matt’s usually able to block it out, push it out of his head, but he doesn’t even bother this time. He _wants_ to hear this noise.

Jose Vizcaino is the only thing standing between their team and a trip to the World Series.

Vizcaino swings as the ball approaches the plate and makes contact. Matt holds his breath, and Haren practically cuts off circulation his arm, he grabs onto him so tightly.

Womack scoops the ball up in his glove and fires it to Pujols first, and the stadium explodes.

Isringhausen stomps off the mound, arms raised in victory, and collides with Matheny in front of the mound. 

Matt leaps over the railing and is swept along with his teammates. He closes his eyes and opens them, and all he can see is red and white. 

Someone grabs onto him and Matt turns, finding himself face to face with Haren.

He wraps Haren up in a big hug, squeezes the life out of him. Haren’s fingers tangle in his hair, and Matt knots his hands in the back of Haren’s jersey.

“We’re gonna do it,” Haren yells into Matt’s ear, and he’s confused for a second, before he remembers Haren’s talking about the World Series. “We’re gonna go all the way and it’ll be even better than this.”

Matt opens his eyes and all he can see is Haren. His hair is wild and his eyes are nearly all pupil. Matt presses his mouth against Haren’s just for a second, quick enough that it could be written off as incidental contact. 

It’s not, though, and Matt’s sure Haren knows.

-

Renteria hits a weak grounder to Foulke who underhands it to Mientkiewicz at first for the final out, and then the dream is over. 

Matt feels the cold air deflate from his lungs, and suddenly breathing seems like a chore. His limbs grow heavy, like they’re weighted down with cement, and guys start to get up and shuffle toward the exit, but Matt can’t make himself move. His heart aches, and it’s that familiar, rubbed-raw ache that nearly consumed him after Darryl died. It’s the kind of ache that makes him wish he had an open beer in his hand or a bottle of pills at his disposal.

They trudge off the field, heads hanging low, as victorious Red Sox players pour out of the dugout and past them, screaming, arms in the air. The Red Sox form a pileup at first base, one leaping onto the next, until it’s just a giant mass of humanity. Matt wishes he was there, under that crush of bodies, celebrating.

But he’s not. He leans over the padded railing and watches the celebration with bile burning up his throat. He can feel teammates pass by, the rustle of jersey against jersey, a hand on his shoulder, can hear a voice hazy and indistinct somewhere behind him.

“We’ll get ’em next year, Matty.” It’s Haren, with his hand resting heavily on Matt’s shoulder.

Matt shakes his head, mostly to himself. He doesn’t even want to think about _next year_ yet. He doesn’t have a contract for _next year_. He might not be back _next year_. Haren squeezes on Matt’s shoulder, and it’s almost like he can read his mind.

“It’ll be okay,” Haren says. He’s whispering, Matt can tell, but his voice sounds so loud in his ears.

“You don’t know that,” Matt whispers back.

“No, I do. Because it always is,” Haren says, settling on his knees next to him against the railing. Haren clasps his hands together and Matt can’t help but laugh. They look like they’re praying together.

“Look, this doesn’t get any easier,” Matt says, talking out of the side of his mouth, as a bat boy walks by with a crate of equipment in one arm and a duffel under the other. “Some guys spend their entire careers waiting for this opportunity. Some guys never even get here. Think about that for a minute, will you?” He reaches up and pushes a hand through his hair, knocking his cap to the ground, littered with crushed Dixie cups and spit-slick sunflower seeds.

Haren looks at Matt and scrunches his forehead, shakes his head. “I don’t get it. I mean, yeah, it sucks. But we’re good. We’re a good team, we got all the pieces to win. Just didn’t go our way this year.”

“We got swept,” Matt reminds him.

“Yeah, but the fact we got here at all - ”

“I don’t have a contract for next season,” Matt interrupts.

“They’ll sign you.”

“There’s no guarantee.” Matt lowers his head, feels the dull ache pulling in his right shoulder. “I got an injury history. I struggled during the second half. There’re a lot of good reasons why they shouldn’t bring me back.”

Haren shuffles closer to Matt and leans on the railing. “You’re gonna be here next year, and we’ll win it _all_ this time,” he says, sweeping his arm across the chaotic scene - the Red Sox are still celebrating in an almost orgiastic manner - still unfolding on _their_ home field. “We’ll win it on that field and Bud Selig’ll hand that trophy to TLR, and then he’ll turn around and hand it to you ’cause nobody deserves to hold it more’n you do.”

Matt feels the kid’s hair scratch against his jawline, and he’s momentarily terrified that someone will see them like this, too close to one another, but then again, they’re not the Red Sox. No reporters or photographers are paying them any attention, and everyone else has left the dugout except for the two of them. Matt slips his arm around Haren and lets him rest his head on his shoulder.

“We’ll see, kid,” Matt says, giving him a squeeze before pulling back. “We’ll see.”

-

Matt is wrung out. _Exhausted_. So tired he can feel it deep in his bones. 

He’s hunched over in front of his locker, replaying all the bad pitches he made in Game Two over in his mind, running through them like a slideshow. If he’d made a different pitch _here_ , or just held the ball a little longer _there_ maybe things would be different. Maybe they wouldn’t be packing up until April.

Matt looks up and scans the clubhouse. He zeroes in on Carpenter, and then Haren. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see them again as their teammate.

Carpenter catches his eye and pushes away from his locker, lopes over in a couple long strides. “Hey,” he says, pulling up a stool next to Matt. “How you holdin’ up?”

“ ’m all right,” Matt says. He lets Carpenter put an arm around his shoulders. “Sucks, though, you know? It really sucks.”

Carpenter nods. “Yeah,” he agrees, looking out, following Matt’s gaze to Haren across the room. Haren has an arm around a pretty blonde in a pink Cardinals jacket and matching hat. She’s holding a white pom pom in her hand like a wilting bouquet of flowers. “ ’s that Jessica?”

“Yeah,” Matt says. “Danny said she flew out from California just for tonight’s game. Only day she could make it.”

“That’s sweet.” Carpenter drums his fingertips on Matt’s shoulder. “Where’s Heather?”

“Home,” Matt says, rubbing at his chin, still watching Haren and his girl. She puts a hand on Haren’s elbow and Matt notices the sparkly diamond ring. “She didn’t feel up to it tonight.”

“Everything okay with you two?” Carpenter slips his arm from around Matt’s shoulders to scratch at his knee through his uniform pants.

“Been under some stress lately, and I kinda took it out on her,” Matt says. “So . . . not exactly. But we’ll get through it.”

Carpenter nods. “Probably good she wasn’t here. It would’ve been upsetting,” he says. “Alyson and Sam are here, we’re gonna go out and grab something to eat. You wanna come with?”

Matt glances over, offers Carpenter a small smile. “Sure, sounds good.”

“ ’kay, man, just let me change.” Carpenter claps Matt on the shoulder and pushes himself to his feet. Matt doesn’t miss that he puts pretty much all the pressure on his left arm.

Matt stands too and begins to unbutton his jersey.

“Hey, Matt!”

Matt turns, fingers poised over the buttons on his jersey. “Hey, Danny.” He smiles at Jessica and tips the brim of his cap to her. “Jessica. Nice to see you again.”

She smiles and locks her hand around Haren’s elbow. “Likewise,” she says, her eyes twinkling. 

Haren works his arm free and slips it around her waist. “Jessica and I were wondering if you wanted to come out with us. We’re gonna grab a bite to eat. And Jessica wants to see a bit of St. Louis before she goes home tomorrow.”

“You’re not staying?” Matt asks, glancing at the girl.

She smiles again, a wide, happy smile that looks like it’ll split her face in two. “My job,” she explains, giving Haren a light tug. “I really can’t stay any longer.”

“That’s too bad,” Matt says, shrugging off his damp jersey. He slings it over his shoulder and holds out his hand to her. “It was nice seeing you again, Jessica. I hope I get to see more of you next season.”

Jessica giggles and whacks Matt playfully on the arm before accepting his extended hand. “You're too kind. Will you tell Heather I said hi?”

“Of course,” Matt says, keeping hold of her hand. The band of her engagement ring is cool against his fingers.

Jessica smiles and slips her hand away. “So, are you going to out with us?”

Matt looks back to Carpenter, who is tugging a black t-shirt on over his head. “Already made plans with Carp and Alyson to go out for some late dinner,” he says, apologetically. “Maybe some other time.”

Haren lets out a deep breath. “Maybe some other time. Catch you ’round, Matty.” He punches Matt on the shoulder with his fist and slips his arm back around Jessica’s waist. 

“See you crazy kids around,” Matt says, tipping his cap to them. He turns back to his locker and reaches up to yank off his undershirt. He feels the sharp twinge in his right shoulder again and he starts groping almost instinctively along the shelf for his bottle of pills.

He really wishes he’d gotten a cortisone shot between games, or something, but he hadn’t even thought about it and now it’s too late.

-

Matt has shoulder surgery at the end of November and less than a week later, he resigns in St. Louis for one year, one million. 

Maybe he could have gotten more somewhere else. Maybe he could have gotten more if he’d used an agent to broker the deal. Maybe he could have waited on the surgery until after he’d already signed. 

He doesn’t, though. 2005 will be his walk year, and he’s got a lot to prove - to both the team and himself.

-

>   
> 
> 
> _Heard about your contract. What’d I tell you?_  
> 

-

Matt and Heather are out shopping when his cell phone begins to buzz in his jacket pocket. Matt checks the caller ID - a St. Louis area code - and the first thought that comes to mind, no matter how ridiculous, is _fuck, I’ve been traded_. Then the initial shock starts to fade - _they can’t trade me, I just signed a contract_ \- and fear sets in. He’d heard the rumors swirling about sending Haren to Arizona for Randy Johnson, and while they were nothing more than rumors - and quickly quashed, at that - the sound of his phone buzzing in his pocket makes him nervous nonetheless.

His palms grow cold and clammy and he sets down his shopping bags. Heather is at his arm, touching him, asking him if he’s okay, asking him what’s wrong, but he waves her off and raises his cell phone to his ear.

Matt rubs a hand through his hair. “Hello?”

“Hi, Matt. It’s me, Walt.”

Matt glances sidelong at Heather, mouths ‘It’s Walt,’ to her. Heather stares up at him with big, nervous eyes, and clings to his elbow, head tilted toward the conversation. “Oh, hi, Mr. Jocketty. What’s going on?” Heather’s grip tightens on Matt’s elbow at the mention of his general manager’s name.

“Just wanted to let you know that we’ve made a trade,” Jocketty says, his tone oddly chipper and incongruous. “We’ve sent Haren to Oakland for Mark Mulder. We were wondering if you’d give Mark a call to welcome him to the team.”

“You traded Haren?” Matt asks, and Heather exhales against his side.

“Yes. Mark will be flying in for a press conference in a couple days,” Jocketty says. “We’d really appreciate it if you could call him and - ”

“Of course, Mr. Jocketty,” Matt interrupts, tightening his hand around Heather’s. “I’d be more than happy to.” He pauses, chewing on his bottom lip. “Um, would you like me to call Haren too? Wish him well?”

“Sure, if you want to,” Jocketty says. “Take care, and happy holidays.”

Matt flips his cell phone closed and glances over at Heather, offering her a slight smile. “Well, the good news is that I haven’t been traded,” he says, slipping the phone into his jacket pocket and smiling wryly.

“What’s the bad news, then?” Heather asks.

“Haren’s been traded to Oakland,” Matt sighs. “I’m guessing Walt’s already called him and told him the news . . . I kinda wanna call him and see how he’s doing.”

“You should do that then,” Heather says, bending down to pick up her shopping bags. “I think he’d appreciate it.”

“You’re probably right.” He reaches out and palms her fine blonde hair out of her face, brushing his fingertips over her hairline. “You usually are.”

Heather smiles faintly and reaches up, cupping her hand briefly over Matt’s before pushing it out of her hair.

-

Matt heads to his office and dials the kid up after they get home, while Heather goes to the living room to wrap presents. A single garland of colorful tinsel is wound around the doorknob, and he focuses on that. This isn’t going to be an easy phone call, he’s more than aware of that.

Haren picks up after the second ring. “Hey, man. Guess you heard,” he says. He sounds tired, rough around the edges. 

Matt’s chest tightens at the sound. “Yeah,” Matt says quietly, settling behind his desk. “Walt called me to let me know.” Matt pauses. “How’re you doing?”

“ ’m okay,” Haren says, feigning excitement, but Matt doesn’t quite believe him. Matt can hear the drag behind Haren’s words. “Jessica’s handling it worse than me. She couldn’t stop crying. I’m just excited about going home, getting to pitch in California.”

“You sure about that?” Matt asks, gently.

Haren sighs. “Can’t get anything past you, can I,” he says.

“Nope.” 

“I hate you,” Haren says, although Matt knows he doesn’t mean it.

“No you don’t,” Matt says. “So, can you get away for a few days?” Matt sits back in his leather chair and props his feet up on the papers cluttering his desk. Matt kicks his shoes off and lets them fall to the floor.

Haren laughs. “Aren’t you holed up with Heather in Jupiter?”

“For the time being,” Matt says.

“Whaddaya mean by that?” Haren asks. He sounds intrigued. Matt can tell he’s hooked him in.

“I mean, she’s flying out to Chicago to visit her parents for a few days before Christmas,” Matt says, closing his eyes. “If a certain team - well, former teammate now, were to invite himself over, I wouldn’t object.”

Haren laughs again. “That was subtle.”

“Subtle’s my middle name,” Matt says, a smile spreading slowly but steadily across his face.

“All right,” Haren says, brightly. Matt hears the ticking of computer keys on the other end. “Looks like I just bought a ticket to Jupiter, Florida.”

Matt’s smile widens into a grin. “Guess I’ll be seeing you soon?”

“Guess so,” Haren replies, with a laugh.

-

It’s Haren’s last day in Jupiter when Matt finally gathers enough courage to sit him down and talk to him.

Haren seems to know something’s up. His smile fades, not completely away but just enough. He tracks Matt nervously with his eyes until he finally sits down across from Haren.

“I’ve been thinking,” Matt says.

“ ’bout what,” Haren asks, quietly.

“This,” Matt says, gesturing between them.

“What’d you decide?” Haren starts picking at the cuticle of his thumb.

“It’s - it’s probably a good idea that it ends here, now,” Matt says, forcing himself to look into Haren’s eyes.

Haren looks down at his hand. “Yeah,” he says. He looks back up at Matt. “I didn’t - I didn’t even think it’d last this long.”

“Me either,” Matt says.

Haren flexes out his fingers slowly, studies his fingernails. “I’m gonna marry Jessica someday,” Haren says. He laughs abruptly, and rubs at his face. He drops his hands into his lap. “I love her. I really do.”

Matt holds his breath, suddenly worried. “Yeah?” 

Haren glances at him. “You ever wonder, like, if this is all there is?”

“If _what_ is all there is?” Matt asks.

“Playing ball and marrying a pretty girl,” Haren says, placing his hand on the tabletop. He inches his hand closer to Matt’s on the table and brushes his fingertips against Matt’s.

“I don’t know,” Matt says, resting his fingers lightly over Haren’s.

“Thought you knew everything,” Haren says.

“I wish.” Matt smiles convulsively, and Haren smiles back.

The clock on the windowsill over the kitchen sink begins chiming and they both look over at the intrusion. **3:30 PM**. Haren’s flight leaves at six.

Haren sighs and gives his carryon a kick under the table. “I should probably get going,” he says, pulling his hand back. He pushes himself away from the table and stands, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his blue jeans. “Don’t be too hard on the new guy, huh?”

Matt laughs. “I’ll be nice.”

“C’mere.” Haren opens his arms and Matt does as he asks, pulling him into a hug. “I’ll call you when I get in, okay?”

“Okay,” Matt says, slipping a hand into Haren’s hair. 

Haren pull away and picks up his bag. “Hey, Matty?”

“Yeah,” Matt asks.

“Be good to yourself, okay?” Haren slips his hand down to hold loosely onto Matt’s.

Matt smiles. “I will. Promise.”

-

A few days later, Matt confines himself in his office and dials up the number Walt gave him for Mulder. Matt tries to imagine Mulder sitting by his phone, waiting for his call and can’t quite do it.

Mulder picks up after three rings.

“ ’lo? Mark Mulder,” Mulder answers.

Matt tilts his head. Mulder sounds awfully chipper for a guy who just got traded from the only team he’s ever known. “Hi. It’s Matt Morris. From the Cardinals.”

“Oh, hi. Walt told me you’d be calling,” Mulder says, amiably.

“I was just calling to, uh, officially welcome you to the team,” Matt says.

“Yeah. I kind of figured that,” Mulder laughs.

“So.” Matt falters, at a lack for words.

Mulder coughs. “So?”

“That’s really all I had to say,” Matt says, laughing slightly. He sits back in his chair and rubs a hand over his face. “Fuck, this is awkward.”

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Mulder offers, generously.

“Gee, thanks.” Matt picks up a Busch Stadium snow globe from the corner of his desk and shakes it. He sets it back down on his desk and leans heavily on his elbows. “How do you feel about all of this?”

Mulder coughs awkwardly. “It’s definitely not anything I’ve ever experienced before.”

“Cut the diplomatic crap,” Matt laughs. “You can be honest. I’m not gonna report you to La Russa.”

Mulder laughs, sounding relieved. “I was kind of pissed when I heard about it, to tell you the truth.”

“Yeah?” _You and me both, buddy_ , Matt thinks.

“Yeah,” Mulder says. “We’d - they’d just traded Hudson, like, _days_ before. Didn’t think I’d get moved so soon after.” Mulder pauses. “You ever been traded before?”

“Nope,” Matt says.

“So I guess you wouldn’t know what this feels like.” Mulder sighs. “It’s not my most favorite feeling in the world. Coming into a different situation. New team, new guys. It’s scary.”

“We’ve got a bunch of good guys over here. I think you’ll fit right in,” Matt says, feeding Mulder the lines he’s been rehearsing in his head since he offered to call in the first place.

“Right,” Mulder says. Matt thinks he sounds skeptical. “Well, thanks for the call.”

“Sure thing. And welcome to the team,” Matt says. “Don’t - don’t let it get into your head too much. You’ll be just fine.”

Matt hangs up and sits back in his chair. It’s soothing, somehow, knowing that Mulder is almost as messed up over this trade as he is.

-

Heather comes back a few days later, looking refreshed, not as tired and haggard as before. She doesn’t quite kiss him back when he greets her at the airport, but she offers him a smile, and that’s something.

He makes dinner for both of them to celebrate her first night back, steak and potatoes for himself and a veggie burger and potatoes for Heather. It’s not perfect, but she doesn’t complain.

Matt ends up spending more time watching Heather cut up her veggie burger and fiddle with it, swirling it through her mashed potatoes, than actually eating himself. Heather pops a piece into her mouth and washes it down with a sip of water.

He can’t really remember the last time either of them said anything that didn’t have to do with dinner. 

The serrated blade of a knife scrapes against the ceramic edge of a plate, and Matt looks up, blinking, the calm shattered.

“What?” Heather lowers her fork and knife.

“Nothing,” Matt says. He looks down and pokes disinterestedly at his steak and mashed potatoes.

Heather sets down her silverware and picks up her glass of water. She takes a sip and clears her throat. “Matt - ” she begins, and he doesn’t like her tone. “You’ve been awfully _quiet_.”

“Sorry. I’ll try to be a more interesting dinner conversation.” He takes his fork and knife to his steak and starts hacking it into small, uneven pieces.

“No, I mean, you’ve been quiet for _a while_.” Heather puts her glass down.

Matt glances up. “What are you talking about?” he asks.

“Since Haren got traded. You - ”

“I’m fine,” Matt interrupts, shoveling some steak into his mouth. He chews loudly, knowing it annoys her.

Heather sighs, jawline tightening. “You’re not fine.” She picks her napkin out of her lap and drops it over her half-eaten meal. “I know you and Haren were close.” She stands, picking up her plate and glass.

Matt tightens his hand around the handle of his knife. “What’s that have to do with anything?”

Heather pauses. “Why don’t you just call him.” It’s not a question, or even a suggestion. Her tone is flat, resigned. Like she’s accepted he’ll call Haren anyway, no matter what she says or does.

“I don’t need to call him.” Matt returns his attention to his steak.

“Yeah, you do.” Heather nudges her seat back against the edge of the table and heads into the kitchen.

Matt looks after her, chewing silently, before pushing back from the table and following her into the kitchen. Heather leans over the sink, scrubbing furiously at her immaculate plate with a sponge.

Matt slips a hand to the back of her neck and she jumps, spinning around.

“What is it?” Heather asks, gripping the sponge in her hand like a weapon.

“It’s over,” he says, dropping his hand.

“What are you - ”

“You know what I mean,” he says.

Heather glances down, dropping the sponge in the sink. She grabs a rag from the counter and wipes off her hands. “Well. I’m sorry,” she says, but it’s short and clipped, doesn’t sound sincere.

“So am I,” he says quietly, looking at her again. 

Heather meets his gaze. “Sorry he’s gone?”

“Sorry - for everything,” he says, hoping she’ll know what he means, hoping she’ll know that he means it.

She nods, curtly, lowering her gaze. “I - I think you owe me something,” she says.

“Whatever you want. Just name it,” he says, thinking he knows what she’ll ask for. She’ll ask him to cut Haren completely out of his life and he doesn’t blame her for wanting that. She’s right, he _does_ owe her. It’s the least he can do.

The thought of completely cutting Haren out stings, though not as sharply as before. They’ve already lost each other. This will be nothing.

Heather reaches out and wraps a damp hand around Matt’s. “I want you to go to A.A.”

He looks at her, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “A.A.?”

“That’s all I want from you.” Heather tightens her grip on his hand.

Matt looks at her, really sees her for the first time. Heather stares at him expectantly, still holding tightly onto his hand. He can see shadows of disappointment and doubt behind her eyes though. He realizes she doesn’t think he’ll to agree to it. She’s tense, like she expects a fight from him. A fight he doesn’t want to give her.

Matt nods slowly. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll do it.”

Heather’s eyes start to water and Matt silently wills the tears not to fall, but they do. She wraps her arms around his neck and presses her chin into his shoulder and he can feel the wetness seep into his shirt, he can feel it against his skin, spreading. Matt strokes a hand through her hair and closes his eyes.

-

Matt smiles at the give of a million bent blades of grass under the soles of his crosstrainers, the sweet crack of bat on ball ringing like music to his ears. The sharp, welcome sounds of baseball - the _whoosh_ of baseballs through the air, the _thump_ of balls into mitts, the instructors and coaches barking orders and scuffing their cleats in the dirt - assault his ears and bring a smile to his face. Matt mentally pulls at the threads as the sounds and images blend together in his brain. 

“Hey, Matty!” Carpenter saunters over to him and gives him a friendly pat on the back with his glove. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Never felt better,” Matt says, grinning, grabbing Carpenter by the hand. He pulls him into an awkward chest bump that morphs into an awkward, one-armed manly hug.

Carpenter grins broadly, raffling his fingers through Matt’s hair. “Good to hear.” He turns his head and glances toward the sounds of baseballs smacking into mitts. “Can hardly believe it’s been, what, four months? Five?”

Matt shakes his head in agreement. “Time flies when you lose the World Series, I guess,” he says.

Carpenter slings an arm around his shoulders. “At least the offseason was shorter this time around, huh?”

“Thank God for small miracles.” Matt also looks in the direction Carpenter’s staring.

Mark Mulder gets up from a green folding chair and slips out of his Cardinals pullover like a snake shedding a skin. He swings his arms out in circular motions, like wings, and toes the dirt.

Mulder is tall, nearly as tall as Matt, if not a little bit taller. He’s blond and fair, and blue eyed and handsome, every inch the golden boy. Matt wants to resent him, _should_ resent him. Mulder’s inherited Matt’s spot in the rotation as the team ace, bumped Matt down to fifth man. Matt knows no one would really blame him if he resented Mulder. Hell, it’s probably expected of him. He can’t really find it in himself to hate him, though.

Mulder finishes warming up and one of the catchers tosses him a fresh white baseball. Mulder tucks it into his glove and steps onto the mound. He reaches up and adjusts the flat bill of his cap.

Matt crosses his arms over his chest. He thinks he feels Carpenter’s arm tighten around his shoulders briefly, but he can’t be sure. He may have just imagined it.

Mulder pivots and fires a hard fastball into the catcher’s waiting mitt. The old scout hanging over the bullpen fence raises his head and examines the reading on his radar gun.

Mulder steps back onto the rubber and looks up, noticing Matt and Carpenter for the first time. “Hey,” he calls out to them, “how’d it look?”

“Not bad,” Carpenter yells back, his tone light and teasing. He rattles the chain-link fence. “Only ninety-four though? I could hit ninety-four in my sleep.”

Mulder flaps his glove dismissively at Carpenter and accepts the return throw from the catcher. He steps back onto the rubber and raises his glove in front of his face. Mulder reaches in and closes his hand around the ball.

Carpenter turns his attention back to Matt. “How was your winter, Matty?” 

Matt reaches into the back pocket of his pants, wordlessly, and pulls out a white business card. He holds it out to Carpenter, who takes it from between his thumb and forefinger.

“ ‘God grant me the serenity to accept things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference,’ ” Carpenter reads aloud. He lowers the card and looks over at Matt, brow furrowing. “You joined Alcoholics Anonymous?”

“Yeah,” Matt says, taking the card back and sticking it in his pocket.

“I didn’t even know you had a - you know - a problem,” Carpenter says, shifting awkwardly.

“Neither did I,” Matt says, meeting Carpenter’s gaze and smiling.

“Is it helping?” Carpenter asks.

“Yeah,” Matt says, looking back to Mulder on the mound. “I mean, I’m still kind of getting used to it, you know? But it’s been helping.”

“Good,” Carpenter says, sounding fond. 

Carpenter thumps a hand firmly between Matt’s shoulder blades and the two of them are silent for a little while. Matt tilts his head back and listens to the sounds of baseball, while Carpenter’s big warm hand steadies him, holds him upright. 

Carpenter nods toward Mulder again. “Whaddaya think, Matty? Think we’ll get back to the Series again?”

Matt nods, looking at a point beyond Mulder’s head, on the horizon. “Yeah,” he says, “we’re gonna win it all this year.”

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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